<\*f"l- 


4&IUKL  FRENCH,  25  West  45th  SU  New 


GIFT   OF 
Class   of   1907 


O 


/ 


THE  FOOL 

A  PLAY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 

BY 

CHANNING  POLLOCK 

They  called  me  in  the  public  square 
The  Fool  that  wears  a  crown  of  thorns." 

— TENNYSON. 

Copyright,    1922,   by   Channing    Pollock 

(As  acted  at  the  Times  Square  Theatre,  New  York, 
and  the  Apollo  Theatre.  L/mdan,  V 


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duction  write  to  The  Century  Play  Co.,  1440  Broadway,  New  York. 
All  unauthorized  performances  will  be  prosecuted. 


New  York: 
SAMUEL  FRENCH 

Publisher 
25  West  45th  Street 


London : 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  LTD. 

26  Southampton  Street 

Strand 


THE       FOOL 

All  Rights  Reserved 


Especial  notice  should  be  taken  that  the  possession  of 
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any  infringement  of  the  author's  rights,  as  follows. 

"SECTION  4966 : — Any  person  publicly  performing  or  rep 
resenting  any  dramatic  or  musical  composition  for  which 
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proprietor  of  said  dramatic  or  musical  composition,  or  his 
heirs  and  assigns,  shall  be  liable  for  damages  thereof, 
such  damages,  in  all  cases  to  be  assessed  at  such  sum,  not 
less  than  one  hundred  dollars  for  the  first  and  fifty  dol 
lars  for  every  subsequent  performance,  as  to  the  court 
shall  appear  to  be  just.  If  the  unlawful  performance  and 
representation  be  wilful  and  for  profit,  such  person  or 
persons  shall  be  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  con 
viction  shall  be  imprisoned  for  a  period  not  exceeding  one 
year."— U.  S.  Revised  Statutes :  Title  60,  Chap.  3. 


"The  Fool" 


G22089 


The  cast  of  "THE  FOOL"  as  originally  presented  by 
Selwyn  &  Company,  at  THE  TIMES  SQUARE  THEATRE, 

New  York,  October  23,  1922 

% 

THE       FOOL 

DIRECTED  BY  FRANK  REICHER 
THE  PERSONS 

(In  the  order  in  which  they  speak) 

Mrs.  Henry  Gilliam MAUDE  TRUAX 

Mrs.  Thornbury EDITH   SHAYNE, 

"Dilly"  Gilliam REA  MARTIN 

Br.  Barnaby GEORGE  WRIGHT 

Mrs.  Tice LILLIAN  KEMBLE, 

"Jerry"  Goodkind LOWELL  SHERMAN 

Rev.  Everett  Wadham ARTHUR  ELLIOT 

Clare  Jewett PAMELIA  GAYTHORNE 

George  F.  Goodkind HENRY  STEPHENSON 

"Charlie"  Benfield ROBERT  CUM  MINGS 

Daniel  Gilchrist JAMES  KIRKWOOD 

A  Poor  Man FRANK  SYLVESTER 

A  Servant GEORGE  LE  SOIR 

Max  Stedtman, GEOFFREY  STEIN 

Joe  Hennig ROLLO  LLOYD 

Umanski :.: FREDRIK  VOGEDING 

"Grubby" ARTHUR  ELLIOTT 

Mack FRANK   SYLVESTER 

Mary  Margaret SARA  SOTHERN 

Pearl  Hennig ADRIENNE  MORRISON 

Miss  Levinson WANDA  LAURENCE 

And  a  Number  of  Persons  of  Minor  Importance 


THE  PLACES 

ACT      I :     The   Church   of    the   Nativity — Christmas 

Eve,  1918. 

ACT     II :     The  Goodkinds'  Home— November,  1919. 
ACT  III:     "Overcoat  Hall"— October,   1920. 
ACT  IV:     Gilchrist's     Room— "Upstairs"— Christmas 

Eve,  1920. 
The  action  takes  place  in  New  York  City. 


THE     FOOL 


ACT  ONE 


SCENE  :    The  Church  of  the  Nativity,  New  York. 

The  set,  representing  only  the  chancel,  is  as 
deep  as  possible,  so  that,  even  'when  its  foreground 
is  brightly  illuminated,  the  detail  back  of  that  is 
lost  in  shadows.  Pierced  by  three  fine  stained  glass 
windows,  the  rear  wall  looms  above  the  altar,  on 
which  the  candles  are  not  lighted.  In  front  of 
that  is  the  sanctuary,  and  in  front  of  that  is  the 
communion  rail,  with  three  steps  to  the  stage. 
Just  right  of  these  steps  is  a  very  tall  and  beautiful 
Christmas  tree.  The  tree  has  been  expensively 
trimmed,  and  has  a  practical  connection  for  an 
electric-lighted  ornament  still  to  be  placed  at  its 
top.  Dozvn  R.,  a  door  to  the  choir  room,  and,  down 
L.,  a  door  to  the  parish  house  and  the  street.  These 
doors  are  exactly  alike. 

Down  L.C.  two  folding  wooden  chairs  that  have 
been  brought  in  for  temporary  use.  Two  similar 
chairs  up  L.C.,  another  up  L.,  hidden  by  door  when 
it  is  open.  A  tall  step-ladder  L.  of  the  tree,  facing 
front.  Down  R.,  two  wooden  boxes  almost  emptied 
of  presents.  There  is  a  pile  of  tissue-wrapped  and 
ribboned  packages  under  the  tree,  and  a  general 
litter  of  gifts,  boxes,  and  crumpled  paper  every 
where.  The  Church  of  the  Nativity  is  fashionable 
and  luxurious;  the  effect  of  the  set  must  be  that 
of  peeping  into  a  building  spacious,  magnificent, 
and  majestic.  The  Christmas  decorations  include 
six  stringers  of  evergreen,  hanging  from  the  tops 


8  THE    FOOL 

of  the  jogs  right  and  left  of  the  altar  rail  and  con 
cealing  the  joints  in  them.    There  is  a  solid  back- 
*•:•'*»      ing^of;  fir' ttees  and  poinsettias  with  red  flowers 
behind  ^ke.dltar  rail  and  pots  of  poinsettias  at  the 
•\  : :/:  •/:  .opening :  of  this  rail.     A  general  atmosphere  of 
' '  *'*:  ' Chr$&w>9$.\  4^ red  carpet  extends  from  the  altar 


down  the  steps  to  the  stage.  It  will  be  found  con 
venient  not  to  tack  this  carpet,  but  to  fix  it  so  that 
the  steps  may  be  struck  quickly.  Also  the  distance 
back  to  the  altar  may  be  increased  by  cutting  the 
carpet  so  that  it  narrows  as  it  nears  the  altar,  thus 
giving  perspective. 

LIGHTING  EQUIPMENT:  Besides  the  chandeliers  and 
wall-brackets  mentioned  in  scenes  following  the 
first  act,  the  following  equipment — mostly  used  in 
Act  I — stands  throughout  the  play. 

Amber  and  pink  first  border.  Blue  back  border 
— to  dimly  light  the  cydorama  in  Act  I,  and  dimly 
show  the  altar  against  the  back  wall. 

Middle  section  of  foots  amber  and  pink.  Right 
section  amber  for  use  in  opening  of  Act  I. 

Three-lamp  strip  of  amber  in  foots  L.  to  high 
light  MARY  MARGARET  when  she  is  praying  in 
Act  III. 

Strong  amber  spot  in  the  first  border  left  of 
centre  to  fall  on  two  chairs  L.C.  in  Act  I  and  give 
light  for  the  scene  between  GILCHRIST  and  CLARE. 

This  spot  must  be  carded  so  that  none  of  the 
light  escapes  to  the  door  L.,  which  must  be  in  dark 
ness  for  the  entrance  of  the  POOR  MAN.  When 
this  spot  is  in  place,  mark  position  of  two  chairs 
on  ground-cloth  so  they  will  be  in  the  light. 

IQOQ-watt  spot  in  the  first  border,  extreme  right, 
focussed  to  fall  on  the  ground  before  the  door  L., 
where  he  stood,  upon  exit  of  POOR  MAN. 

Amber  baby  spot  in  recess  of  window  Lv  falling 
on  ladder  and  Christmas  tree,  as  though  that  light. 


ACT    ONE  9 

end  the  light  on  the  chairs,  came  from  the  window. 

Amber  baby  spot,  with  pin-point,  L.,  hidden  be 
hind  jog  up  LV  falls  upon  the  cross  on  the  altar, 
lighting  it  dimly.  This  light  is  on  throughout 
Act  I.  It  barely  shows  when  the  other  lights  are 
up,  but  throws  the  cross  into  high  relief  when 
they  are  dimmed  at  end  of  act. 

Two-lamp  amber  strips  in  doorways  R.  and  L. 

Amber  spots  back  of  two  stained  glass  windows 
in  cyclorama  R.  and  L.  of  altar. 

LIGHTING  IN  ACT  I:  At  rise;  foots  half  up;  first 
border  less  than  half  up;  back  border  very  dim, 
to  just  suggest  the  altar.  Spot  on  cross.  Spot  on 
chairs  and  spot  on  Christmas  tree.  The  idea  is  to 
high-light  these  chairs  and  the  ladder  for  comedy 
at  start  of  act.  Except  for  these  two  locations,  the 
church  is  dimly  lighted — especially  the  altar, 
which  should  be  suggested  rather  than  visualized. 
The  act  begins  with  bright  day-light  outside,  tem 
pered  by  the  stained  glass — about  half  past  three  in 
the  afternoon,  so  that  the  sudden  early  winter  twi 
light  may  have  set  in  before  its  close. 

All  through  the  act  the  spots  back  of  windows 
are  dimming  slowly  and  quite  out  by  the  entrance 
of  the  POOR  MAN.  On  entrance  of  CLAIRE,  and 
cue  "I  hope  I  never  see  another  doll,"  dim  every 
thing  except  spot  on  two  chairs.  Spot  on  Christmas 
tree  dims,  but  not  too  much,  as  we  must  see  GIL- 
CHRIST  when  he  stands  there  during  his  conversa 
tion  with  the  POOR  MAN. 

On  final  exit  of  Claire  dim  spot  on  two  chairs. 
Not  too  fast.  It  need  not  be  out,  so  long  as  light 
does  not  escape  to  show  the  POOR  MAN,  but  get  it 
as  dim  as  possible,  WITHOUT  JUMPING,  be 
fore  his  exit. 

TIME:    Christmas  Eve,  1918. 


10  THE    FOOL 

AT  RISE  :  Discovered :  Two  women  and  a  girl. 

MRS.  HENRY  GILLIAM,  bending  over  the  box 
down  R.,  is  fat,  forty,  rich  and  self-satisfied. 

Her  daughter,  DAFFODIL,  commonly  called 
"DiLLY,"  perched  upon  the  ladder,  is  a  "flapper" 
As  regards  her  mind,  this  means  that,  at  twenty, 
she  is  wise  and  witty,  cynical  and  confident^  world 
ly  and  material  beyond  her  elders.  Physically,  she 
is  pretty  and,  of  course,  has  not  hesitated  to  help 
out  nature  wherever  she  has  thought  it  advisable. 
Considering  what  has  been  spent  on  her  education, 
she  is  surprisingly  ignorant  and  discourteous  par 
ticularly  to  her  mother,  who  bores  her  dreadfully. 

LEILA  THORNBURY  is  a  divorcee;  thirty,  smart, 
good-looking,  and  with  something  feverish  in 
her  eyes,  in  her  movements.  Deliberately  at 
tractive  to  men,  she  is  disliked,  in  proportion,  by 
women.  All  three  are  very  expensively  dressed. 
MRS.  THORNBURY  has  laid  aside  on  a  chair  L.  of 
ladder,  a  fur  coat  on  the  cost  of  which  twenty 
families  might  have  lived  a  year.  She  is  up  centre, 
concerned  with  a  number  of  dolls  and  other  toys. 

NOTE:  MRS.  THORNBURY'S  coat  is  on  chair  L.  and  up 
stage  of  ladder,  against  rail.  DILLY'S  coat  is  thrown 
over  the  altar  rail  L.  of  c.  There  are  two  chairs  up 
against  this  rail  L.  MRS.  GILLIAM 's  coat  is  over  the 
back  of  the  chair  R.  BARNABY  puts  MRS.  TICE'S 
coat  on  the  seat  of  the  same  chair.  JERRY  puts  his 
coat  and  hat  on  the  L,  of  these  two  chairs. 

As  THE  CURTAIN  RISES  :  MRS.  GILLIAM  is  busy  at  the 
boxes  down  R.  Turning  to  carry  something  up  to 
the  tree,  she  gets  a  generous  view  of  DILLY'S  lower 
limbs. 


ACT    ONE  11 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  (Shocked)  Dilly!  .  .  .  Dilly,  for 
pity's  sake,  pull  down  your  skirt !  ( DILLY  laughs,  but 
does  not  obey)  I  don't  know  why  our  young  women 
want  to  go  around  looking  like  chorus  girls! 

MRS.  THORNBURY.  (c.  below  altar  steps;  unwrap 
ping  a  bundle)  Perhaps  they've  noticed  the  kind  of  men 
that  marry  chorus  girls ! 

DILLY.  (Laughing)  Salesmanship,  Mother,  begins 
with  a  willingness  (Mischievously  raising  her  skirt  an 
other  inch)  to  show  goods ! 

MRS.  THORNBURY.  Dilly!  (Plolds  up  two  dolls  she 
has  unwrapped,  and  comes  down  c.)  What  are  we  go 
ing  to  do  with  these  ? 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  (Despairingly,  surveying  the  litter) 
Goodness  knows! 

MRS.  THORNBURY.  (To  chairs  L.C.)  I've  two  en 
gagements  before  dinner,  and  I've  got  to  go  home  and 
undress  for  the  opera. 

DILLY.    /  gave  up  a  dance  for  this. 

MRS.  GILLIAM.   A  dance  at  this  hour? 

DILLY.    People  dance  at  any  hour,  Mother. 

MRS.  GILLIAM.   What  do  they  do  it  for? 

(She  throws  packages  at  foot  of  tree,  and  goes  down  to 
boxes.  All  through  this  scene,  MRS.  GILLIAM 
moves  up  and  down  from  the  boxes  below  the  door 
right  to  the  Christmas  tree.  She  is  busily  taking 
packages  from  these  boxes  and  putting  them  at  the 
foot  of  the  tree.  DILLY  is  equally  occupied  with 
the  decorations  on  the  tree,  and  MRS.  THORNBURY 
is  tying  tags  on  her  dolls.  All  three  women  must 
be  kept  busy.  They  are  not  merely  sitting  still  to 
deliver  lines.) 

DILLY.  For  something  to  do.  (To  MRS.  THORN- 
BURY)  We're  young  and  we  got  to  have  life  and  gaiety; 
haven't  we,  Mrs.  Thornbury  ? 


12  THE  FOOL 

MRS.  THORNBURY.  (Between  chairs)  We've  got  to 
have  something.  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  I  know  we 
have  to  keep  going  to  get  it. 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  But  you  all  waste  your  time  so  dread 
fully.  I'm  busy,  too,  but  my  life  is  given  to  the  service 
of  others. 

DILLY.  (Looks  at  MRS.  THORNBURY)  Ha — ha! 
What  could  be  sweeter  ? 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  (Up  to  tree)  Dilly!  Nobody  knows 
better  than  you  that  I've  never  had  a  selfish  thought. 
Mr.  Gilliam 

DILLY.  (Looks  at  MRS.  THORNBURY)  Of  the  Gil 
liam  Groceries,  Incorporated. 

MRS.  GILLIAM.    Mr.  Gilliam  says  I'm  far  too  good. 

MRS.  THORNBURY.  We  agree  with  him,  Mrs.  Gil 
liam. 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  Only  yesterday  I  gave  five  hundred 
pounds  of  coffee  and  sugar  to  the  Salvation  Army! 
(Down  to  boxes.) 

DILLY.  And  today  Father  jumped  the  price  of  sugar 
to  thirty-two  cents!  (Comes  down  from  the  ladder.) 

MRS.  THORNBURY.    Now — Dilly ! 

(  DILLY  sits  in  the  chair  L.,  facing  R.  Places  comedy  doll 
— a  ballet  dancer  in  a  short  skirt — on  chair  R.  where 
it  can  be  played  with  later  by  JERRY.  Busies  herself 
with  the  other  doll.) 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  (With  rising  motion)  One  gets 
precious  little  reward — I  can  tell  you!  I  sent  helpful 
thoughts  from  the  Bible  to  all  Mr.  Gilliam's  employees ! 
Now  they're  on  strike,  and  the  man  that  got  "Be  con 
tent  with  your  wages"  is  leading  the  strikers ! — Where's 
the  Star  of  Bethlehem?  (To  conceal  her  agitation,  she 
lias  turned  to  the  box.) 

DILLY.  (Pointing)  There,  but  it  doesn't  work, 
Mother. 


ACT   ONE  13 

MRS.  THORNBURY.  Are  those  your  husband's  men — 
on  the  front  steps  ? 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  Oh,  no!  These  are  people  from  the 
sweat  shops!  They're  starving,  I  hear,  and  Mr.  Gil- 
liam  says  it  serves  'em  right!  (Bringing  star  out  of 
box  R.)  What's  the  matter  with  the  Star  of  Bethlehem  ? 

DILLY.  Oh,  the  usual !  Whoever  heard  of  the  lights 
working  on  a  Christmas  tree  ? 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  (Holding  up  the  star)  But  this  must 
work.  Mrs.  Tice  had  it  made  to  order — of  Parisian 
diamonds.  It  cost  a  hundred  dollars. 

DILLY.  (Reaching  for  the  star)  All  right !  It's  bet 
ter  than  nothing!  (She  takes  it,  and  ascends  the  lad 
der.) 

MRS.  THORNBURY.  (Rises.  She  has  seated  both  dolls 
on  the  chairs.)  There!  I'm  half  dead,  and  there  can't 
be  any  more  presents!  (Starts  up  for  her  coat)  I'd 
give  my  left  hand  for  a  cigarette. 

(DILLY  hangs  star  on  tree  and  looks  at  MRS.  THORN- 
BURY:  who  winks  at  her.) 

MRS.  GILLIAM.   Not  here! 

MRS.  THORNBURY.  Why  not?  We've  had  almost 
everything  else. 

DILLY.  Mother's  so  Mid- Victorian !  And  ministers 
are  finding  they've  got  to  do  something  to  make  church- 
going  attractive.  I've  heard  of  preachers  who  go  in  for 
dances  and  movies,  and  they  draw  crowds,  too.  Natur 
ally!  Who  wouldn't  go  to  Church  to  get  a  squint  at 
Douglas  Fairbanks?  (She  has  hung  the  star).  I'm 
through ! 

MRS.  GILLIAM.    Then  come  down. 

DILLY.  Believe  me,  I'm  glad  to  get  off  this  thing! 
(Descends.) 

(MR.  BARNABY,  package-laden,  enters  L.  He  is  the  sex- 


14  THE    FOOL 

ton  and  of  the  age,  manner,  and  appearance  pe 
culiar  to  sextons.  He  carries  eleven  vanity  cases 
bought  by  MRS.  TICE.) 

MRS.  THORNBURY.  (Turns  and  is  appalled  at  his 
burden)  Oh,  Mr.  Barnaby!  What  have  you  got? 

MR.  BARNABY.  (Up  to  the  altar  steps  to  deposit 
them)  Some  more  presents. 

MRS.  GILLIAM.   Good  gracious! 

MR.  BARNABY.  (Deposits  his  bundles  on  the  steps 
R.C.)  Mrs.  Tice  brought  them.  She  and  Mr.  Jerry 
Goodkind.  (MRS.  GILLIAM  nudges  DILLY)  They're 
just  coming  in. 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  (Sotto  voce)  Dilly,  powder  your 
nose!  (DILLY  obeys.  Crosses  up  L.C.)  Mr.  Barnaby, 
our  star  won't  light.  Will  you  see  if  you  can  fix  it? 

(MR.  BARNABY'S  mind  is  on  MRS.  TICE.  She  is  much 
too  rich  to  open  a  door.  He  is  edging  L.) 

MRS.  THORNBURY.  And  Mr.  Barnaby,  will  you  let  us 
have  some  seals 

(Voices  off  L.) 

MR.  BARNABY.  One  moment!  (Crosses  to  between 
chairs  L.C.) 

(Enter  MRS.  TICE  followed  by  JERRY  GOODKIND.  MRS. 
TICE  has  just  entered  middle-age,  and  refuses  to 
shut  the  door  behind  her.  Her  wealth,  which  has 
given  her  an  air  of  great  authority,  has  made  it 
possible  for  her  to  look  a  smartly-dressed  young 
matron.  The  truth  is  that  she  is  clinging  to  youth 
in  an  ever-lessening  hope  of  "keeping"  her  hus 
band.  Beneath  the  <(air  of  authority"  is  something 
cowed,  and  worried,  and  unhappy.  Just  so,  beneath 


ACT    ONE  15 

the  smiling,  careless  surface  of  JERRY  lies  iron.  He 
can  be  very  ugly  when  he  wishes,  and  he  is  always 
sufficiently  determined  to  get  what  he  wants  though 
he  gets  it  generally  by  showing  the  urbane  surface. 
JERRY  would  describe  himself  as  a  "kidder".  He 
is  35;  sleek,  well-groomed,  and  perfectly  satisfied 
with  himself.  His  most  engaging  point  is  a  per 
petual  smile.) 

OMNES.  (As  MRS.  TICE  enters)  Oh,  hello,  Mrs. 
Tice!  Good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Tice!  How  do  you  do! 

(MRS.  TICE  pays  no  attention  to  these  greetings,  but 
angrily  goes  to  BARNABY.) 

MRS.  TICE.  Who  are  those  people  on  the  church 
steps  ?  A  lot  of  dirty  foreigners  blocking  the  sidewalk ! 

MR.  BARNABY.  It's  the  grating,  Mrs.  Tice.  The  fur 
nace  room's  underneath,  and  they're  trying  to  get  warm. 
9  MRS.  TICE.  Well,  let  'em  try  somewhere  else !  (After 
MR.  BARNABY  removes  her  coat  and  places  it  on  chair 
up  L.,  she  crosss  to  MRS.  GILLIAM  R.C.,  shaking  hands) 
I  don't  mean  to  be  unkind,  but  there  must  be  missions 
or  something ! 

(MR.  BARNABY  removes  his  coat,  hangs  it  on  cross 
piece  of  ladder;  then  climbs  to  attend  to  the  star 
and  connects  the  plug.) 

MRS.  THORNBURY.  We  didn't  hope  to  see  you  here, 
Mr.  Goodkind. 

JERRY.  (Down  L.)  I  met  Mrs.  Tice  on  the  most 
dangerous  corner  in  New  York. 

MRS.  THORNBURY.    Where? 

JERRY.  In  front  of  Tiffany's.  (Goes  up  and  lays  hat, 
coat  and  stick  on  chair  L.C.) 


16  THE    FOOL 

MRS.  TICE.  Yes,  and  I  lured  him  here  by  mentioning 
that  Clare  Jewett  was  helping  us. 

DILLY.  (Runs  down  stage  left,  puts  one  knee  on  the 
left  of  the  two  chairs  L.C.  and  looks  straight  up  into  the 
face  of  JERRY)  Somebody  page  Mr.  Gilchrist! 

(MRS.  GILLIAM  crosses  upstage  to  DILLY.  MRS.  TICE 
crosses  downstage  to  MRS.  THORNBURY  at  R.) 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  (Taking  hold  of  DILLY)  Dilly! 
(To  JERRY)  Isn't  Dilly  looking  wonderful ?  So  young 
and — and 

JERRY.     (Up  L.)    And  fresh. 

DILLY.    Oh,  boy! 

MRS.  TICE.  Do  come  and  see  what  I've  got  for  the 
girls  of  the  Bible  Class ! 

(All  the  women  rush  to  MRS.  TICE  at  R.C.  front.  They 
group  themselves  around  her.  MRS.  THORNBURY  is 
on  her  R.  MRS.  GILLIAM  on  her  L.  DILLY  injects 
herself  between  her  mother  and  MRS.  TICE.) 

MRS.  THORNBURY.    Testaments  ? 

MRS.  TICE.  (c.)  That's  just  it:  I  haven't!  I  want 
to  give  them  something  they  can  really  use!  And  it's  so 
hard  to  think  of  presents  for  those  girls;  they've  got 
everything !  (  Opening  a  small  parcel  she  has  withheld 
from  MR.  BARNABY)  Guess  how  I've  solved  the  prob 
lem! 

MRS.  THORNBURY.  I  can't !  (Speaks  simultaneously 
with  MRS.  GILLIAM  and  DILLY.) 

MRS.  GILLIAM.    I  haven't  an  idea! 

DILLY.     (Beside  her  mother)     I'm  dying  to  know ! 

MRS.  TICE.  (Impressively,  displaying  the  gift)  Ster 
ling  silver  vanity  cases ! 

DILLY.  (Takes  it,  crosses  up  L.  and  shows  it  to 
JERRY  who  stands  above  chairs  L.C.)  How  ducky! 


ACT    ONE  17 

MRS.  GILLIAM.   Charming! 

MRS.  THORNBURY.  (Goes  up  for  coat)  Quite  an 
inspiration ! 

MRS.  TICE.  (Turning  up  R.  to  MRS.  THORNBURY) 
You  know,  Bibles  are  so  brornidic. 

(BARNABY  descends  from  the  ladder.) 

MRS.  THORNBURY.  (Gathering  up  her  coat,  and 
crossing  to  JERRY  below  chair  L.C.)  Yes,  aren't  they? 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  (With  the  air  of  one  bereft)— Oh, 
Mrs.  Thornbury! 

MRS.  THORNBURY.  (Goes  toward  JERRY :  down  stage 
of  chairs  L.C.)  I've  done  my  "one  kind  deed"  today, 
and  I've  an  engagement  for  dinner.  (As  she  reaches 
the  chairs  L.  c.,  JERRY  comes  down  between  them,  and 
takes  her  coat.) 

JERRY.  Permit  me.  (Puts  coat  over  her  shoulders. 
MRS.  THORNBURY,  sinking  into  it,  leans  up  against  him. 
JERRY  starts  to  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  MRS. 
THORNBURY  is  looking  up  flirtatiously  into  his  face.  At 
this  moment,  MRS.  TICE  R.C.,  facing  LV  sees  what  is  go 
on,  and  says  "Tst!"  to  attract  the  attention  of  MRS. 
GILLIAM  :  who  turns  to  look.  MRS.  THORNBURY  and 
JERRY  both  see  that  they  are  observed.  JERRY'S  embrac 
ing  hand  immediately  camouflages  by  slipping  down  the 
arm  of  the  coat,  as  though  feeling  the  fur)  Some  coat! 
MRS.  THORNBURY.  (Archly)  Yes— thanks.— See 
you  all  tomorrow  at  the  Christmas  Service!  Goodbye, 
everybody!  (Crosses  to  door  L.)  And  Mr.  Goodkind! 
You'll  find  Miss  Jewett  wrapping  things  in  the  choir 
room! 

(Everybody  laughs.  Exit  MRS.  THORNBURY  L.    JERRY 
drops  down  L.) 


18  THE    FOOL 

MR.  BARNABY.  I'll  just  try  those  lights.  (Exit  L. 
putting  on  coat.) 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  She  has  an  engagement  for  dinner, 
but  you  notice  she  didn't  say  with  whom!  (Crosses 
MRS.  TICE;  to  down  R.)  I  don't  think  they  ought  to  al 
low  divorced  women  in  the  church!  (To  boxes  again) 
Where  does  she  get  all  her  money  ? 

MRS.  TICE.  (L.  of  tree)  Her  husband  settled  for 
thirty-six  thousand  a  year ! 

JERRY.  (With  growing  amusement)  Think  of  get 
ting  thirty-six  thousand  a  year  out  of  munitions !  Gee, 
what  a  lot  of  lives  that  coat  must  have  cost ! ! 

(Everybody  laughs.  Enter  DR.  WADHAM.  He  is  not  the 
stage  clergyman.  On  the  contrary,  he  is  a  very 
pleasant  and  plausible  person — plausible  because 
he  believes  implicity  in  himself.  He  has  passed 
sixty,  and  has  a  really  kind  heart.  But  he  has  had 
no  experience  with  life,  and  he  has  never  been  un 
comfortable.  He  comes  to  L.C.) 

DILLY.    (Surprised)    Here's  Dr.  Wadham! 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  (Crosses  and  shakes  hands)  Why, 
Doctor ! 

MRS.  TICE.  (Down  R.)  We  didn't  know  you  were 
back. 

JERRY.  (Down  L.  of  Doctor)  I  didn't  know  you'd 
been  away.  (DR.  WADHAM,  whose  back  was  to  JERRY, 
turns  to  him  quickly)  How  are  you,  Doctor? 

DR.  WADHAM.  (Shakes  hands)  Ten  days;  attend 
ing  a  Conference  on  the  Proper  Use  of  Eucharistic 
Candles.  It's  a  subject  on  which  I  feel  rather  strongly. 
(Turns  R.)  It's  pleasant  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Tice.  And 
Miss  Daffodil.  (Shakes  hands  with  DAFFODIL  who  has 
come  between  Mother  and  Doctor.) 

MRS.  GILLIAM.    Isn't  Dilly  looking  wonderful? 

DR.  WADHAM.    Quite  wonderful!    (Looking  at  the 


ACT    ONE  19 

tree)    And  what  a  beautiful  tree!   The  star  lights  up,  I 
suppose. 

DILLY.    Well,  we  have  hopes!     (Goes  up  C.) 

(JERRY  takes  doll  from  chair  R.  and  L.C.  and  plays  with 
it,  sitting  in  chair  L.  DILLY  comes  down  to  above 
chairs,  flirting  with  him.  A  little  later,  she  takes 
doll  from  him  and  puts  it  on  altar  steps,  remaining 
upstage.) 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  (About  c.)  It's  made  of  real  im 
itation  diamonds.  A  gift  from  Mrs.  Tice. 

MRS.  TICK  (Joining  DR.  WADHAM  L.C.)  Speaking 
of  gifts,  Doctor 

DR.  WADHAM.    Yes,  dear  lady. 

MRS.  TICE.  My  husband  wanted  me  to  have  a  little 
talk  with  you  about  his  check.  (She  pauses  for  en 
couragement,  finding  what  she  has  been  told  to  say  a 
trifle  difficult.)  You  know  he  promised  five  thousand 
dollars  to  beautify  the  parlor  of  the  Parish  House. 

(When  MRS.  TICE  crossed  to  DR.  WADHAM  at  c.,  MRS. 
GILLIAM  went  back  to  her  boxes  R.,  and  now  re 
sumes  business  of  carrying  packages  from  them  to 
the  tree.  However,  she  is  listening  to  the  conver 
sation  between  MRS.  TICE  and  DR.  WADHAM. 
MRS.  TICE'S  hesitation  continues  only  to  the  line 
"Well,  frankly,  Dr.,"  when  she  becomes  very  stern 
and  speaks  with  great  authority.  In  the  beginning 
cf  this  act,  there  should  be  three  distinct  stages  of 
menace  to  GILCHRIST,  each  somewhat  higher  than 
the  one  preceding  it.  This  conversation  between 
MRS.  TICE  and  DR.  WADHAM  is  the  first  step. 
The  second — bringing  still  more  sense  of  danger — 
is  the  conversation  between  GOODKIND  and  DR. 
WADHAM.  The  third  and  greatest  comes  with  the 
entrance  of  BENFIELD.  These  three  in  succession 
lead  up  to  the  climax  of  GILCHRIST'S  dismissal 


20  THE    FOOL 

from  the  Church  of  the  Nativity,  and  they  must  be 
directed  as  steps  to  that  climax.) 

DR.  WADHAM.     (Foreseeing  trouble)     Oh,  yes. 

MRS.  TICE.  And  since  then — well,  frankly,  Doctor, 
John  was  very  much  upset  about  last  Sunday's  sermon. 
Mr.  Gilchrist  preached  from  the  text  about  the  rich  man 
entering  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven. 

DR.  WADHAM.     Always  a  trifle  dangerous. 

MRS.  TICE.  Yes,  and  last  Sunday  it  seemed  as  if 
he  were  directing  all  his  remarks  at  John.  We're  in  the 
first  pew,  you  know,  and  John  says  he  doesn't  like  to 
complain,  but  there's  getting  to  be  altogether  too  much 
of  this — Bolshevism. 

DR.  WADHAM.     Mr.  Gilchrist  is  young. 

JERRY.     (In  chair  L.)     Mr.  Gilchrist  is  a  nut! 

MRS.  TICE.  Do  you  know  what  he  said,  Doctor? 
He  said  all  this — "decking  the  church" — was  making 
an  accomplice  of  God.  He  said  we  couldn't  take  credit 
to  ourselves  for  returning  a  small  portion  of  our  ill- 
gotten  gains! 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  (R.)  Small  portion!  When  I've 
just  given  away  five  hundred  pounds  of  coffee ! 

MRS.  TICE.  He  said  Charity  wasn't  giving  away 
what  you  didn't  want ! 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  (Up  to  tree  with  present)  It  was 
good  coffee,  too !  Our  second  best  coffee ! 

MRS.  TICE.  Of  course,  what  John  objected  to  was 
the  reference  to  rents.  John  says  he  doesn't  come  here 
to  be  told  how  to  run  his  business ! 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  (Coming  down  to  boxes)  Quite 
right!  And  I  don't  pay  this  church  seven  thousand 
dollars  a  year  to  hear  my  husband's  coffee  roasted! 
(They  all  laugh — the  more  because  of  the  previous 
tension.  MRS.  GILLIAM,  surprised  at  first,  sees  the 
point  and  joins  in  the  laughter.  DILLY,  laughing,  runs 
to  foot  of  ladder  and  sits  on  bottom  step.)  Well,  you 
understand  what  I  mean! 


ACT    ONE  21 

DR.  WADHAM.    We  understand,  Mrs.  Gilliam. 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  Personally,  I'm  very  fond  of  Mr. 
Gilchrist.  His  father  had  stock  in  our  stores.  But  I 
don't  think  he's  a  good  influence.  This  used  to  be  a 
really  exclusive  f  church.  Now,  whenever  Mr.  Gilchrist 
preaches,  there's  such  a  crush  of  undesirable  people 
you  can  hardly  get  to  your  pew.  We  don't  have  that 
trouble  with  Dr.  Wadham! 

(WADHAM,  c.,  pleased,  starts  to  bow  to  MRS.  GILLIAM, 
when  he  suddenly  "gets"  the  significance  of  her 
speech,  and  abruptly  turns  front,  blinking  his  eye 
lids  rapidly .) 

(CLARE  JEWETT  enters  R,,  her  arms  full  of  parcels. 
CLARE  is  28.,  smartly  dressed,  though  in  a  fashion 
that  suggests  thought  rather  than  expenditure,  and 
pretty,  in  spite  of  a  certain  hardness.  The  next 
sentence  arrests  her,  and  she  stands  in  the  door 
way;  not  eavesdropping,  but  not  interrupting.) 

MRS.  TICE.  Mr.  Gilchrist  was  such  a  promising 
young  man! 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  {At  foot  of  ladder  and  slightly  R.) 
So  rich,  and  happy! 

DILLY.  (Sitting  on  ladder,  tantalizing  JERRY)  And 
in  love ! 

DR.  WADHAM.  (Still  c.  but  slightly  up)  He's  still 
rich,  and  in  love,  and,  I  think,  he's  still  happy. 

JERRY.    I've  told  you ;  he's  a  nut ! 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  I  wonder  if  that's  it.  Don't  laugh! 
He  wasn't  like  this  before  he  went  overseas  as  chaplain. 
Is  it  possible  he  was  gassed — or  someting  ? 

(During  this  speech,  DILLY  has  caught  sight  of  CLARE, 
standing  behind  MRS.  GILLIAM,  and  has  been  try 
ing  to  attract  her  mother's  attention.  At  the  end 
of  the  speech,  she  whispers  loudly  "Mother,"  and 


22  THE    FOOL 

as  CLARE  takes  a  step  downstage  and  forwards, 
MRS.  GILLIAM  turns  and  sees  her.  She  ejaculates 
"Oh!"  tries  to  laugh,  the  laugh  ends  in  embarrass 
ment,  and  she  goes  upstage,  in  a-  position  to  drop 
down  c.  on  tier  next  speech.  DILLY  follows  her. 
but  continues  up  to  L.,  where  she  leans  against  the 
rail,  busily  engaged  in  using  her  lip-stick  and 
powder-puff.  JERRY  rises  from  his  chair  L.C.) 

CLARE.     Here's  another  armful  of  presents. 

DR.  WADHAM.    Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Miss  Jewett? 

CLARE.    I'm  very  well,  thank  you. 

(MRS.  TICE  and  DR.  WADHAM  go  up  c.,  just  a  step  to 
clear,  when  JERRY  speaks.) 

JERRY.    (Crosses  toward  her)    Hello,  Clare!    This  is 


MRS.  GILLIAM.  (Intercepting  him  c.)  Surprise! 
Ha!  And  you've  been  waiting  for  her  the  last  half 
hour!  (Goes  up  for  her  cloak  on  chair  up  L.C.  DILLY 
behind  chairs  L.C.) 

CLARE.  (R.C.)  I'm  afraid  we'll  have  to  get  Mr. 
Barnaby.  There  are  so  many  packages. 

(JERRY  crosses  to  L.  side  of  ladder.) 

DR.  WADHAM.    Can't  I  help? 

CLARE.  Will  you,  Doctor?  (DR.  WADHAM  crosses 
to  her  R.  below  tree)  And  Mr.  Hinkle's  in  there  pray 
ing  for  someone  to  consult  about  the  Christmas  music. 

DR.  WADHAM.  I  told  Mr.  Hinkle  the  choir'd  better 
begin  by  singing.  "Peace,  Perfect  Peace,  With  the 
Loved  Ones  Far  Away." 

(DILLY  kneeling  on  chair  L.C.  laughs.  They  laugh  at 
her.  Scandalized,  MRS.  GILLIAM  hushes  her.  DR. 
WADHAM,  annoyed,  crosses  CLARE  to  exit  R.) 


ACT    ONE  23 

MRS.  TICK.  (Coming  down)  And  Doctor!  About 
the  Parish  House — shall  I  tell  my  husband  you'll  speak 
to  Mr.  Gilchrist? 

DR.  WADHAM.  Yes,  I  think  you  may  even  tell  him 
I've  an  appointment  with  both  wardens  on  that  subject, 
here  today.  (He  exits  R.) 

MRS.  GILLIAM     (To  L.)     Dilly,  do  hurry! 

MRS.  TICK,     (c.)     Can't  I  drive  you  home  ? 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  Thank  you  so  much!  Goodbye, 
Miss  Jewett.  Goodbye,  Mr.  Goodkind.  We  must  ar 
range  for  you  to  come  up  to  dinner  as  soon  as  the  holi 
days  are  over. 

( DILLY  crosses  MRS.  GILLIAM  to  door.     Enter  MR. 
BARNABY.    He  bows.) 

Dilly,  say  "goodbye"  to  Mr.  Goodkind! 

DILLY.  Goodbye!  (Waving  her  hand  impudently, 
exit.) 

MRS.  GILLIAM.  Oh,  Mr.  Barnaby,  how  about  the 
lights  ? 

MR.  BARNABY.    I  think  the  trouble's  outside. 

MRS.  GILLIAM.    You'll  be  sure  to  fix  it? 

(MR.  BARNABY  nods.    Exit  MRS.  GILLIAM.) 

MRS.  TICE.  (Crosses  to  door)  And  will  you  put  us 
in  the  car?  (BARNABY  helps  MRS.  TICE  on  with  fur 
coat)  I  rather  dread  that  mob  at  the  door.  Goodbye, 
Mr.  Goodkind — and  Miss  Jewett,  and,  if  I  don't  see 
you  tomorrow,  a  Merry,  Merry  Christmas ! 

(At  her  convenience,  during  this  speech,  MRS.  TICE 

presents  BARNABY  with  a  five  dollar  bill.    From 

that  moment,  BARNABY  never  ceases  nodding  his 

.   gratitude.     At  the  end  of  the  speech,  MRS.  TICE 

exits,  bowed  out  by  BARNABY.) 


24  THE    FOOL 

CLARE.    Thank  you. 

JERRY.  (Warmly)^  Merry  Christmas.  (As  the  door 
closes,  he  repeats  with  dry  disgust  at  having  been  de 
tained  all  this  time)  Merry  Christmas!  (CLARE  is 
doivn  R.  kneeling  with  the  five  packages. she  has  brought 
in,  placing  them  at  the  foot  of  the  tree.  JERRY  lounges 
over  to  her,  L.  of  ladder,  and  drapes  himself  on  the 
bottom  step.  He  looks  at  her  mockingly,  and  waits  for 
her  to  speak.  There  is  a  short  pause.  There  should  be 
a  distinct  change  in  the  chemistry  of  the  action  when 
new  people  come  into  a  scene.  The  tone  of  the  follow 
ing  scene  is  entirely  different  from  that  of  those  pre 
ceding  it.  JERRY  is  bantering.  CLARE  is  deeply  hurt, 
but  too  good  a  sport  to  show  it.  She  conceals  her  an 
noyance  from  him  until  two  or  three  speeches  at  the 
end  of  the  scene,  when  her  indignation  gets  the 'better 
of  her.  These  speeches  are  marked  with  a  double  x., 
should  be  spoken  firmly  to  get  the  laugh  that  follows 
JERRY'S  light  rejoinder.) 

CLARE.  (Kneels  R.  of  tree)  It's  funny  to  find  you 
in  church. 

JERRY.  (Stands  L.  of  tree)  Why?  My  father's 
senior  warden. 

CLARE.  (Laughs  and  takes  up  a  parcel  from  under 
tree)  Whatever  else  you  inherit,  Jerry,  it's  not  likely 
to  be  religion ! 

JERRY.  Religion  doesn't  trouble  the  old  man  much 
— except  Sundays.  I  came  here  to  see  you. 

CLARE.    Why? 

JERRY.    You've  been  avoiding  me. 

CLARE.  Nonsense!  Come  and  help  me  with  these 
parcels. 

JERRY.    I  want  to  talk  to  you. 

CLARE.  That's  just  it,  Jerry.  You  always  want  to 
talk  to  me,  and  always  to  say  something  I  don't  want 
to  hear. 

JERRY.    Why  not? 


ACT    ONE  25 

CLARE.  (Simply,  but  not  very  surely)  I'm  in  love 
with  someone  else! 

JERRY.    You're  what? 

CLARE.  (Rises,  looking  defiantly  into  the  mocking 
face  quite  close  to  hers  and,  this  time,  with  conviction) 
I'm  in  love  with  someone  else ! 

JERRY.    You're  in  love  with  Clare  Jewett ! 

CLARE.  You're  very  rude.  I'm  engaged  to  Mr.  Gil- 
christ,  and  he  loves  me,  and  believes  in  me,  and  your 
sense  of  decency  and  fair  play 

JERRY.     Inherited  from  my  father? 

CLARE.  — should  keep  you  from  proposing  to  a 
woman  who's  going  to  marry 

JERRY.  (Raises  hand)  You're  not  going  to  marry 
Mr.  Gilchrist.  What's  the  use  bluffing?  We've  known 
each  other  since  childhood.  You  know  I'm  not  going 
to  give  up  anything  I  want  because  it  belongs  to  some 
body  else.  (She  crosses  to  altar  rail  for  doll)  And 
I  know  you're  not  going  to  give  up  what  you  want — 
comfort  and  luxury — for  a  crazy  man  who  wears  his 
collar  hind-side  before ! 

CLARE.     (Up  c.)    Jerry! 

JERRY.    Now  that's  admitted,  let's  go  on. 

CLARE.  (Brings  doll  to  chair  L.C.)  Mr.  Gilchrist 
isn't  exactly  poverty-stricken !  (Sits  on  chair  R.  Chair 
faces  L.  She  faces  audience.) 

JERRY.  (Down  to  R.  of  her  and  a  step  above  her) 
No ;  he  got  quite  a  lot  of  money  from  his  father.  You 
like  him  and  when  you  said  "yes,"  you  thought  you 
were  getting  somebody  you  liked,  and  all  the  rest  of 
it,  too.  But  something's  gone  wrong  with  Gilchrist, 
and  you  know  it ! 

CLARE.    (Fastens  tag  on  doll)    Why  do  you  say  that  ? 

JERRY.  Because,  if  you  didn't  before,  you  heard  this 
afternoon.  (CLARE  looks  at  JERRY)  Oh,  I  saw  you 
standing  in  the  door.  And  I'm  going  to  tell  you  a  few 
things  more ! 


26  THE    FOOL 

CLARE.    I  don't  want  to  listen ! 

JERRY.  Maybe — but  you  will!  Do  you  know  that 
your  young  trouble-hunter  has  given  away  nearly  one- 
tenth  of  his  capital  in  three  months? 

CLARE.     (Looks  at  him)     No,  and  I  don't  believe  it! 

JERRY.  All  right ;  ask  my  father !  The  old  man  has 
his  money  in  trust !  Gilchrist  won't  touch  his  income 
from  Gilliam  Groceries,  because  they're  profiteering, 
and  he's  preaching  such  anarchy  that  both  wardens  are 
coming  this  afternoon  to  complain  to  Dr.  Wadham! 
I  don't  want  you  to  throw  yourself  away  on  a  raving 
bug! 

CLARE.     And  your  advice  is (xx) 

JERRY.  Marry  me.  I'm  a  nice  fellow,  too — and  I 
can  give  you  what  you  really  care  about.  You're  over 
your  ears  in  debt,  without  any  chance  of  paying  up — 
or  cutting  down.  I  know  what  it  cost  you  when  your 
father  died,  and  you  had  to  come  down  a  peg.  You 
don't  want  to  keep  on — coming  down,  do  you? 

CLARE.  And  so — you  advise  me  to  marry  you ?    (xx) 

JERRY.    Yes. 

CLARE.  (Looking  at  him  squarely  and  significantly) 
Knowing  all  I  do  know  about  you?  (xx) 

JERRY.     I  don't  see  how  that  concerns  you. 

CLARE.    It  proves  you  don't  love  me. 

JERRY.  I  want  you,  and  I'm  offering  marriage  to 
get  you. 

CLARE.    You  haven't  said  one  word  of  love. 

JERRY.  I've  said:  "What's  the  use  bluffing?" 
I'm  no  movie  hero — and  no  crazy  dreamer.  I'm  a 
little  shop-worn,  perhaps — maybe,  a  little  soiled — but 
I'm  sane,  and  I'm  solvent.  And  you — you're  good- 
looking,  and  smart,  and  a  lady.  You'll  help  my  stand 
ing  and  I'll  help  your  credit.  For  the  rest — we  needn't 
bother  each  other  too  much.  (Goes  to  her)  What  do 
you  say?  (He  puts  out  his  arm  to  touch  CLARE.  She 
rises  forbiddingly  and  looks  him  straight  in  the  eye.) 


ACT    ONE  27 

CLARE.  I  say  it's  revoltingly  sordid  !  (She  holds  an 
instant,  and  then  goes  between  the  chairs  upstage  to  R. 
of  opening  in  front  of  altar.  Puts  her  doll  down  on 
the  steps.  ) 

JERRY.  (Chagrined  for  an  instant,  recovers  him 
self)  All  right  !  (Looks  at  zvrist  watch)'  You  think 
it's  revoltingly  sordid  at  3  :45  on  Christmas  Eve.  (Goes 
upstage  and,  during  the  folloiving,  is  putting  on  his 
overcoat.)  Well,  keep  your  ears  and  your  mind  open, 
and  see  how  you  feel  in  the  morning.  My  telephone's 
Rhinelander  —  six  nine  four  two  —  and  this  is  the  last 
time  I  shall  ask  you  !  (Starts  down  between  chairs  to 


CLARE.  (Turning)  Wait!  (He  stops  and  turns  to 
her)  Whatever  you  believe  of  me,  I  love  Mr.  Gilchrist! 

JERRY.    (Near  door)    Rhinelander  six  nine  four  two. 

CLARE.    And,  what's  more,  I'm  going  to  marry  him! 

JERRY.    (Near  door)    Rhinelander  six  nine  four  two. 

CLARE,  (c.)  Jerry,  I  think  you're  the  most  detest 
able  person  I've  ever  known  in  my  life  ! 

JERRY.  (Laughs.  At  door,  which  he  has  opened) 
Rhinelander  six  —  nine  —  four  —  two  !  (Shuts  door. 
Exit  LV  leaving  CLARE  humiliated  and  beaten.  She 
stands  still  a  moment,  looking  after  JERRY,  and  some- 
thing  like  a  sob  escapes  her.  DR.  WADHAM  re-enters  R.) 

DR.  WADHAM.    Why  —  Miss  Jewett! 

CLARE.  I'm  nervous  !  —  I  want  to  finish  up  and  go 
home!  (Exit  R.) 

(DR.  WADHAM,  puzzled,  closes  the  door  after  her. 
JERRY'S  father,  GEORGE  GOODKIND,  enters  L.  He 
is  about  the  DOCTOR'S  age  —  sixty  —  but  he  has  had 
vast  experience  in  life,  and  he  enjoys  comfort  now 
because  he  has  been  very  uncomfortable.  GOOD- 
KIND  is  much  like  any  other  successful  business 
man  you  might  meet  —  and  like  —  at  dinner.  He  is 
brisk  and  economical  of  time,  but  pleasant,  and, 


28  THE    FOOL 

unless  his  interests  are  involved,  extremely  ami 
able.  He  does  what  he  conceives  to  be  his  duty  by 
his  family,  his  community,  and  his  God,  and  feels 
that  all  three  should  appreciate  it.) 

DR.  WADHAM.  Ah — Mr.  Goodkind!  (Glances  at 
his  watch)  You're  early!  (Crosses  to  L.C.) 

GOODKIND.  How  do  you  do,  Doctor?  Walked  out 
of  a  meeting.  I  don't  like  letting  religion  interfere 
with  business,  but  I  wanted  to  get  here  before  Benfield. 
It's  about  young  Gilchrist. 

DR.  WADHAM.    (Starts)    Shall  we  go  into  my  study? 

GOODKIND.  Benfield's  coming  here.  (DR.  WADHAM 
indicates  chair)  No — no — I've  only  a  few  minutes. 
Did  you  know  Gilchrist  proposes  to  preach  a  Christmas 
sermon  about  the  strike? 

DR.  WADHAM.    What  strike? 

GOODKIND.  This  garment  strike.  He  announced  his 
subject  from  the  pulpit,  and  Benfield's  furious. 

DR.  WADHAM.  Mr.  Benfield  isn't  interested  in 
clothing. 

GOODKIND.  No,  but  he's  invested  heavily  in  my 
West  Virginia  coal  mines,  and  down  there  we're  on  the 
verge  of  the  biggest  walk-out  in  our  history.  You  see 
what  I  mean? 

DR.  WADHAM.    Yes. 

GOODKIND.  The  labor  problem's  none  of  the  Church's 
business.  Or  any  outsider's  business.  It's  a  worrisome 
subject,  and  there's  no  good  stirring  it  up.  That's  what 
you  want  to  tell  Gilchrist ! 

DR.  WADHAM.    I. have  told  him — frequently. 

GOODKIND.    And  what's  the  answer  ? 

\DR.  WADHAM.    He  says  every  problem  ought  to  be 
the  Church's  business,  and  that,  until  the  Church  be 
comes  a  power  in  live  issues,  it  isn't  a  power  in  life! 
GOODKIND.    He  won't  listen  to  reason? 
DR.  WADHAM.    No. 


ACT    ONE  29 

GOODKIND.  Then  he'll  have  to  listen  to  something 
else.  If  he  persists  about  this  Christmas  sermon — 

(BARNABY — enters  L.    DR.  WADHAM  indicates  they  are 
not  alone.    GOODKIND  turns.    Impatiently) 

What  is  it,  Barnaby? 

BARNABY.  There's  a  man  out  there  wants  to  see  Mr. 
Gilchrist. 

GOODKIND.    What  kind  of  a  man? 

BARNABY.  (Indifferently)  A  poor  man.  I  think 
he's  a  Jew. 

GOODKIND.  Who  ever  heard  of  a  poor  Jew  ?  (Crosses 
in  front  of  WADHAM  to  ladder  and  looks  at  tree.) 

DR.  WADHAM.    Mr.  Gilchrist  isn't  here. 

BARNABY.  I  told  him  that,  but  he  won't  go  away. 
I  wanted  to  ask,  had  I  better  send  for  the  police  ? 

DR.  WADHAM.    No,  I  wouldn't  do  that! 

BARNABY.  Why  don't  he  go  to  a  Synagogue  instead 
of  hanging  around  a  Christian  Church?  Mr.  Gilchrist 
gave  this  fellow  his  overcoat.  I  suppose  he's  come  back 
for  the  gloves ! 

DR.  WADHAM.    Tell  him  I'll  speak  to  Mr.  Gilchrist. 

(MR.  BARNABY  shakes  his  head  despairingly.    Exit.) 

GOODKIND.  (Down  R.  of  DR.  WADHAM)  Well,  there 
you  are,  and  what  I  wanted  to  talk  about  privately  is — 
what's  got  into  the  boy  ?  Has  he  gone  crazy  ? 

DR.  WADHAM.  I've  asked  myself  that.  I've  asked 
myself  if  what  he  saw  in  France 

GOODKIND.  Exactly.  A  lot  of  young  fellows  go  off 
the  handle  and  start  out  to  reform  the  world,  but  this 
lad  has  run  through  twenty  thousand  dollars  in  less  than 
three  months ! 

DR.  WADHAM.     In  addition  to  his  salary? 

GOODKIND.  Yes.  I  could  understand  if  he'd  spent 
the  money  on  himself.  But  he  hasn't!  He's  given  it 
away!  (DR.  WADHAM  shakes  his  head)  Gilchrist 's 


30  THE    FOOL 

father,  as  you  know,  was  my  first  partner,  and  I  got 
the  boy  in  here,  and  I  feel  responsible  for  him.  Of 
course,  as  trustee,  I  can  refuse  to  turn  over  another 
penny  of  his  principal,  and,  as  senior  warden,  I  can 
demand  his  resignation  from  this  Church.  But  I 
want  him  to  have  every  chance.  Now,  you  tell  him, 
tell  him  if  he'll  get  a  grip  on  himself,  and  reconsider 
tomorrow's  sermon 

(Enter  BENFIELD  L.) 

Here's  Benfield !     (Goes  a  few  steps  R.) 

("CHARLIE"  BENFIELD  is  fifty,  and  a  "rough  diamond." 
He  is  self-made,  and  proud  of  it,  though  nothing 
of  education  or  refinement,  or  knowledge  and  ap 
preciation  of  fine  things  has  gone  into  his  making. 
He  is  arrogant,  domineering,  used  to  having  his 
own  way,  and  to  sweeping  aside  obstacles.) 

BENFIELD.  Hello,  George !  How  d'ye,  Doctor !  Am 
Hate? 

DR.  WADHAM.  (BENFIELD'S  very  presence  makes 
him  nervous)  We've  been  waiting  for  you.  Hadn't 
we  better  retire  to  my  study  if  we're  going  to  discuss 
Mr.Gilchrist? 

BENFIELD.  (Throws  hat  on  chair)  We're  not! 
We've  been  discussing  long  enough!  All  I  got  to  say 
now  is :  Gilchrist  leaves  this  church  or  I  do ! 

GOODKIND.     (Toward  c.)     Now  wait  a  minute! 

DR.  WADHAM.   Isn't  that  a  little  mandatory? 

BENFIELD.  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  it  goes !  I've 
worked  hard  all  my  life,  and  now  this  fellow  gets  up 
and  tells  ^me  what  I've  worked  for  is  nothing,  and  that 
I'm  nothing,  and  all  my  ideas  is  wrong!  (Up  between 
chairs. ) 

DR.  WADHAM.    (Up  on  a  line)    He  didn't  say  that. 

BENFIELD.    (Turning)    Oh,  yes,  he  did — last  Sunday 


ACT    ONE  31 

and  every  Sunday!  I've  got  two  million  dollars  tied 
up  in  Black  River  mines,  and  I'm  not  paying  to  have 
the  socialist  papers  down  there  print  that  my  own  min 
ister  is  in  favor  of  strikes! 

GOODKIND.  (Down.  Crosses  to  R.  of  WADHAM) 
Wait  a  minute,  Charlie!  That's  not  the  tone  to  take 
to  Dr.  Wadham!  We  all  feel  that  Gilchrist  has  gone 
too  far,  and  we've  agreed 

BENFIELD.     (Down)     Does  he  preach  tomorrow? 

GOODKIND.  We've  agreed  that  if  he  insists  on 
preaching  about  the  strike 

BENFIELD.    He  goes? 

GOODKIND.    He  goes ! 

(DANIEL  enters  L.  He  quietly  goes  up  and  puts  hat 
on  chair  above  door  L.) 

BENFIELD.    All  right,  and  if  he  don't  insist  ? 

GOODKIND.    He  stays. 

BENFIELD.  And  I  go!  (He  picks  up  his  hat,  stili 
facing  R.)  You  can  decide  which  of  us  is  the  most 
valu'ble  to  your  church !  Because  I  tell  you  again — and 
straight — this  church  ain't  big  enough  for  Gilchrist 
and  me ! 

DANIEL.  (Smiling.  Comes  down  L.  behind  BEN- 
FIELD)  A  church  that  isn't  big  enough  for  two  little 
men,  Mr.  Benfield,  must  be  somewhat  crowded  for 
God! 

(BENFIELD  does  not  turn,  or  move,  during  GILCHRIST'S 
speech,  but  stares  straight  ahead  of  him  furiously. 
At  the  end  of  it,  he  turns  violently,  and  strides  to 
GILCHRIST,  as  though  to  make  a  rejoinder.  How 
ever,  he  can  think  of  nothing  good  enough  to  say 
so  he  jams  his  hat  on  his  head,  gives  a  great  grunt, 
crosses  GILCHRIST,  and  exit  L.) 

(GILCHRIST  is  33.    He  was  a  football  hero  at  college, 


32  THE    FOOL 

and  shows  it.  He  was  a  gentleman  before  he  went 
to  college,  and  he  has  been  one  ever  since,  and  he 
shows  that,  too.  What  he  does  not  show  is  what 
one  expects  in  a  ''reformer" — narrowness,  hard 
ness,  something  forbidding.  An  ascetic,  beyond 
doubt,  self-denial  has  only  made  him  trim  and  fit. 
The  goodness  that  shines  in  his  face  is  partly  good 
humor.  He  has  honest  eyes,  with  fire  in  them,  and 
there  is  strength  and  zeal  back  of  that — strength 
and  zeal  that  will  leave  their  mark  later.  As  yet, 
his  exultation  is  chiefly  in  his  smile.  His  great  gift 
is  charm — and  sympathy.  At  this  moment,  he 
wears  no  overcoat,  and  is  glowing  from  the  cold. 
His  clerical  hat  he  laid  on  chair  up  L.  when  he  re 
turned.  Still  smiling,  he  looks  after  BENFIELD.) 

DR.  WADHAM.  (c.  Embarrassed)  Mr.  Benfield  is 
a  little — ah — a  little 

DANIEL.  (Definitely)  Yes;  a  little.  (Comes  down, 
chaffing  his  wrists.) 

DR.  WADHAM.  '(Agreeing)  Yes,  a  little.  (Goes 
upc.) 

GOODKIND.  (Crosses  to  DANIEL  from  up  R.  They 
are  below  chairs  L.C.)  Pneumonia  weather,  Daniel! 
Where's  your  overcoat? 

DANIEL.    Outside. 

GOODKIND.  Oh,  yes.  There's  a  man  out  there,  too, 
who  says  he  won't  go  'way  until  he  sees  you.  Dan, 
you're  an  awful  decent  fellow,  but  I  still  think  you  made 
a  mistake  going  into  the  church.  If  you  ever  want  to 
talk  it  over  with  me,  I'd  be  glad  to  help  you — any  time ! 
You  know  that ! 

DANIEL.    Thank  you. 

GOODKIND.  Goodbye,  Doctor!  (Crosses  in  front  of 
DANIEL)  Goodbye,  Dan,  and  a  Merry  Christmas! 
(Exit  i..) 

DANIEL.  The  same  to  you (DANIEL  opens 

door  for  GOODKIND  and  closes  it  after  him.) 


ACT    ONE  33 

DR.  WADHAM.    (UpR.c.)    Daniel,  you're  in  trouble. 
(Comes  down  on  line  with  DANIEL.) 
DANIEL.     (Smiling)     Doctor,  I'm  used  to  it. 

(There  is  comedy  in  this  speech  if  WADHAM  uses  a 
peculiar  tone  in  saying  "Daniel"  and  GILCHRIST 
exactly  imitates  that  tone  in  saying  "Doctor") 

DR.  WADHAM.  (Back  of  chair  R.)  This  time  it's 
serious.  I've  warned  you  often.  I  don't  see  how  you 
can  have  been  so  blind. 

DANIEL.  (Over  to  L.  of  him  and  below  chairs)  I 
haven't  been  blind. 

DR.  WADHAM.  Then  you  don't  care  for  your  po 
sition  in  this  church. 

ORGAN  PP 

DANIEL.  (With  feeling)  There's  only  one  thing  I 
care  for  more. 

DR.  WADHAM.    And  that  is  ? 

DANIEL.    To  be  worthy  of  it. 

DR.  WADHAM.  (Coming  down  and  sitting  in  chair 
R.  He  faces  front.  The  chairs  face  each  other.)  When 
you're  as  old  as  I  am,  Daniel,  you'll  understand  that 
being  honest  doesn't  necessarily  mean  being  disagree 
able. 

DANIEL.  (Crosses  front  to  R.  of  chairs)  Doesn't  it 
mean — telling  the  truth? 

DR.  WADHAM.  (Looking  after  him)  Do  you  know 
the  truth,  Daniel? 

(DANIEL  turns  and  takes  a  step  to  WADHAM.) 

DANIEL.  Yes — don't  you?  Doesn't  every  man — 
(DOCTOR  looks  up  at  him)  in  his  heart?  And  if  we 
want  to  keep  it  in  our  hearts,  and  never  think  about 
it  or  look  it  in  the  face,  shouldn't  someone  pry  open 


34  THE    FOOL 

the  door  and  cry:  "Behold!" — I  didn't  tell  them  any 
thing  they  didn't  know,  Doctor.  I  don't  know  anything 
they  don't  know.  I  just  reminded  them 

DR.  WADHAM.  (Exploding  on  the  last  word)  That 
we  were  heathen ! 

DANIEL.  That  we  were  Christians,  and  every  man 
our  brother,  and  that  we  were  sitting,  overdressed  and 
overfed,  in  a  Christian  Church,  while  our  brother  froze 
and  starved — outside — in  a  Christian  world ! 

STOP  ORGAN 

DR.  WADHAM.  That  isn't  fair !  These  good  people 
have  given 

DANIEL.  Given — what  cost  them  nothing !  (Survey 
ing  tree)  Frumpery  and  trumpery  and  diamond  stars ! 
That's  how  all  of  us  give — what  we  don't  need !  What 
we  don't  even  want — You're  a  good  man,  Doctor,  and, 
honestly,  what  would  you  say  if  your  wife  told  you 
she'd  sold  her  rings  and  given  the  money  to  the  poor? 

DR.  WADHAM.   Why,  I— I 

DANIEL.    You'd  say  she  was  crazy! 

DR.  WADHAM.   But  there's  no  necessity 

DANIEL.  Oh,  yes,  there  is !  There'll  be  people  lying 
in  the  parks  tonight.  What  would  Mrs.  Tice  say  if 
I  invited  them  to  sleep  in  her  pew? 

DR.  WADHAM.  That  there's  no  reason  why  she 
should  share  their  dirt  and  disease ! 

DANIEL.  Exactly!  We  may  believe  in  the  brother- 
hood  of  man,  but  we  know  about  germs!  We're  not 
sure  what  is  truth,  but  there's  one  thing  we  are  sure  of, 
and  mean  to  be  sure  of,  and  that's  our  own  comfort! 
You  know  that,  and  I  know  it,  and  they  know  it — but 
we  mustn't  say  it !  All  right ;  in  God's  name,  what  are 
we  to  say? 

DR.  WADHAM.  (He  has  been  nervously  regarding 
this  raving  as  confirming  the  worst  fears  of  MR.  GOOD- 
KIND.  Noiv  he  speaks  very  firmly)  Precisely.  (Rises) 


ACT    ONE  35 

And  that  brings  us  to  tomorrow's  sermon.  I  understand 
you  intend  to  talk  about  the  strike.  (Goes  to 
DANIEL  c.) 

DANIEL.    Yes. 

DR.  WADHAM.  And  that's  not  a  very  pleasant  sub 
ject  for  Christmas,  is  it  ?  Wouldn't  it  be  more  fitting  to 
preach  from  the  text,  "Glory  to  God,  in  the  Highest!" 

DANIEL.  "And  on  earth,  Peace,  good  will  toward 
men." 

DR.  WADHAM.  (Delighted)  Yes!  You  might  say, 
"There  are  many  kinds  of  peace " 

DANIEL.    But  there  aren't ! 

DR.  WADHAM.  (Taken  aback)  There  is  physical 
peace — peace  that  came  with  the  end  of  this  cruel  war ! 
There  is  mental  peace 

DANIEL.  There  is  no  peace!  There  is  only  fear — 
and  hate — and  vanity — and  lust,  and  envy,  and  greed — 
of  men  and  nations !  There  are  only  people  preying  on 
one  another,  and  a  hungry  mob  at  the  very  doors  of 
your  church!  (He  looks  up,  and  his  tone  changes  to 
tliat  of  a  man  who  sees  a  vision) — My  text  will  be: 
"And  Peter  followed  afar  off." 

DR.  WADHAM.    I  don't  understand. 

DANIEL.  (Into  his  tone,  hitherto  indignantly  human, 
comes  something  mystic — something  divine)  We  all 
follow — afar  off. 

DR.  WADHAM.  (Touches  him.  Alarmed;  not  at  the 
words,  but  at  that  "something  divine")  Daniel — my 
dear  fellow! 

DANIEL.  Don't  worry.  I'm  quite  sane.  Only — 
I've  been  wondering  about  that  for  a  long  time. 

DR.  WADHAM.   Wondering? 

DANIEL.  What  would  happen  if  anybody  really  tried 
to  live  like  Christ? 

DR.  WADHAM.    (Shaking  his  head)    It  can't  be  done. 

DANIEL.  Isn't  it  worth  trying?  Men  risk  their  lives 
— every  day — in  experiments  far  less  worth  while. 
We've  had  centuries  of  "fear,  and  hate,  and  greed"— 


36  THE    FOOL 

and  where  have  they  brought  us?    Why  not  try  love? 

DR.  WADHAM.    How  can  you  make  them  try? 

DANIEL.    By  showing  that  it  would  work. 

DR.  WADHAM.  It  won't  work,  Daniel.  It's  a  beauti 
ful  ideal,  but  it  won't  work.  Times  have  changed  and 
things  are  different.  Life  isn't  as  simple  as  it  was  two 
thousand  years  ago.  The  trouble  with  you,  Daniel,  is 
that  you're  not  practical. 

DANIEL.     I  wonder. 

DR.  WADHAM.  And  the  great  need  of  the  Church 
is  practical  men.  We  mustn't  take  the  scriptures  too 
literally.  We  must  try  to  interpret  their  spirit.  And, 
above  all,  we  must  please  our  congregations — or  we 
shan't  have  any.  And  then  what  becomes  of  our  in 
fluence?  Better  fall  back  on  my  text  for  tomorrow, 
Daniel. 

DANIEL.    I  can't. 

(The  two  men  look  at  each  other  fixedly.  Their  eyes 
say  more  than  their  voices.  There  is  a  short  pause 
after  each  speech,  building  to  a  small  climax.) 

DR.  WADHAM.  At  least,  you  must  promise  not  to 
discuss  the  strike. 

DANIEL.    I  can't  do  that,  Doctor, 

DR.  WADHAM.   Or  else  let  me  take  the  pulpit. 

DANIEL.    /  won't  do  that!     (A  longer  pause.) 

DR.  WADHAM.  Very  well !  Preach  your  Christmas 
sermon,  and  afterward 

DANIEL.    Yes  ? 

DR.  WADHAM.  I  think  you  may  find  a  greater  field 
of  usefulness  elsewhere. 

(They  look  at  each  other  a  moment.  Then  DANIEL 
turns  and  walks  a  step  upstage  c.  DR.  WADHAM 
crosses  toward  exit  R.  When  he  is  just  R.  of  c. 
DANIEL  turns  and  speaks.) 


ACT    ONE  37 

DANIEL.    Doctor ! 

DR.  WADHAM.  I'm  so  sorry,  Daniel.  I  know  you've 
been  very  happy  in  your  work  here.  I  know  how  failure 
hurts.  But  you  saw  it  coming,  and  you  wouldn't  turn 
aside. 

DANIEL.  (He  looks  up  with  flashing  eyes)  The  man 
who  turns  away  from  his  vision — lies !  (Shakes  hands. 
He  turns  away  and  crosses  almost  to  chair  tliat  holds 
his  hat.  WADHAM  drops  head)  It's  all  right,  Doctor. 

(CLARE  JEWETT,  ready  for  the  street,  enters  R.) 

DR.  WADHAM.  (Brightly)  Well,  Miss  Jewett! 
(DANIEL  hears  CLARE'S  name  and  stops)  What's  hap 
pened  to  the  choir  ?  Aren't  they  going  to  practice  ? 

CLARE.  Mr.  Hinkle  cut  his  finger.  I've  been  apply 
ing  first  aid. 

DR.  WADHAM.  Woman's  traditional  mission — to 
bind  our  wounds.  (He  likes  the  sound  of  this  phrase, 
and  turns  from  CLARE  toward  DANIEL,  who  is  on  his 
L.  He  starts  to  repeat  "to  bind  our — "  when  he  realises 
the  double  significance  of  his  remark.  He  looks  from 
DANIEL  to  CLARE,  connecting  them  in  the  minds  of  the 
audience,  and  then  front)  Well,  I  must  be  going! 
(Crosses  R.)  Step  into  my  study  in  the  morning, 
Daniel,  and  we'll  have  a  look  at  your  sermon !  (Bow- 
ing)  Miss  Jewett.  (Exit  R.  From  here  the  lights 
dim  very  slowly.) 

START  DIM 

(The  following  scene,  between  CLARE  and  DANIEL, 
should  be  full  of  warmth  and  happiness.  CLARE 
has  few  opportunities  to  be  light-hearted.  This  is 
one  of  them.  In  the  beginning  of  the  scene, 
DANIEL'S  mind — and  his  eyes — are  on  the  absent 
WADHAM,  but  he  speedily  begins  to  show  his  love 
for  CLARE.  The  scene  gets  variety  if  this  spirit  is 
kept  in  it  up  to  the  beginning  of  the  quarrel, ) 


38  THE    FOOL 

CLARE.  (*.  c.  Puts  doll  on  ladder  R.)  I  hope  I 
never  see  another  doll!  Got  anything  on  your  mind, 
Dan? 

DANIEL.  (L.  Has  hat  in  his  Jiand.  Quickly)  What 
do  you • 

CLARE.    I  mean  anything  special  to  do? 

DANIEL.    Oh!— No. 

CLARE.    Take  me  home. 

DANIEL.  (He  beams  and  crosses  above  chairs  to  her, 
hat  in  hand)  I'm  getting  my  Christmas  present  early! 

CLARE.    Where's  your  coat? 

DANIEL.  Outside.  (She  starts  toward  exit  L.  He 
stops  her)  That  is— I  lent  it  to  a  friend.  Oh,  I've  got 
another — somewhere ! 

CLARE.  But  you  can't  go  out  without  a  coat.  (Looks 
at  wrist  watch)  Anyway,  I  told  the  taxi  man  to  come 
back  at  half  past  four.  That's  the  worst  of  not  having 
a  car.  Well,  we  may  as  well  sit  down ! 

(DANIEL  has  been  looking  at  the  door  through  which 
WADHAM  made  his  exit.  Now  he  mutters  an 
apology  for  his  -for  get  fulness  and  places  the  R.  of 
the  two  chairs  L.C.  for  her.  The  chair  is  spotted  on 
the  ground  cloth.  She  sits.  He  is  back  of  chair, 
still  looking  off  absent-mindedly.  She  reaches  up 
and  puts  her  hand  affectionately  on  his  arm.) 

What's  the  matter  with  you,  Dan?  (Puts  hat  on 
chair  L.  ) 

DANIEL.     Nothing  important. 

CLARE.  There  will  be  if  you  insist  on  going  around 
without  an  overcoat!  (Looks  at  him  narrowly.  He 
crosses  up  stage  to  other  chair  L.C.)  You're  too  gen 
erous.  (He  is  miles  away)  I  say  you're  too  generous. 
How  are  we  going  to  be  married  if  you  go  on  giving 
things  away! 

DANIEL.  (Brings  chair  fonvard,  sits.  Laughs)  Is 
generosity  a  fault  in  a  husband? 


ACT    ONE  39 

CLARE.  That  depends.  Is  it  true  you've  been  giving 
away — well — large  sums  of  money? 

DANIEL.    Who  told  you  that? 

CLARE.  A  little  bird.  (He  laughs)  And  that  you've 
refused  to  take  part  of  your  income? 

DANIEL.    Little  bird  tell  you  that? 

CLARE.    Yes. 

DANILL.  Must  have  been  a  cuckoo!  (They  both 
laugh.) 

CLARE.    Is  it  true? 

DANIEL.    About  the  money?    Yes. 

CLARE.    Why  ? 

DANIEL.  Well,  there's  the  strike,  and  a  good  deal  of 
unemployment,  and  I've  got  so  much.  Why — I've  got 
you!  (He  takes  CLARE'S  hand.  She  gently  pulls  her 
hand  away.) 

CLARE.  Let's  not  talk  about  it  now.  Yes,  let's! — 
You're  so  changed.  I  hardly  know  you.  We  don't 
seem  to  want  the  same  things  any  more. 

DANIEL.    What  do  you  want,  Clare? 

CLARE.    I  want  to  be  happy. 

DANIEL.    That's  exactly  what  I  want! 

CLARE.    How  can  anybody  be  happy  without  money  ? 

DANIEL.  How  can  anybody  be  happy  with  it?  (She 
looks  at  him  quickly)  Anyway,  do  you  think  people 
are?  Happier  than  the  people  who  just  have  enough? 

CLARE.  In  our  day  and  age  there's  nothing  worse 
than  poverty!  There's  nothing  more  degrading  than 
having  to  scrimp,  and  save,  and  do  without,  and  keep 
up  appearances !  I've  tried  it — ever  since  my  father 
died — and  I  know!  I  can't  do  it  any  longer,  and  I 
won't!  (Rises  and  goes  up  c.) 

DANIEL.     (Follows  her  up  c.)     Clare! 

CLARE.  (She  turns  to  him,  somewhat  calmer,  up  c.) 
I  don't  want  to  quarrel  with  you,  Dan.  I  just  want  you 
to  be  sensible — I  love  you,  but  I  love  the  good  things 
of  life,  too.  I  like  to  be  warm  and  comfortable. 

DANIEL.    You  can  be  sure  of  that. 


40  THE    FOOL 

CLARE.  But  that's  only  the  beginning.  I  want  good 
clothes,  and  furs,  and  my  car,  and  money  to  spend 
when  I  like.  I  want  my  own  house,  and  my  own 
servants,  and  a  husband  who  amounts  to  something. 
I'm  no  different  from  other  women  of  my  class.  (To 
ladder.) 

DANIEL.    (Over  to  her)    I  hoped  you  were. 

CLARE.  (Turns.  She  is  getting  angry)  A  year  or 
two  ago,  people  thought  you  were  going  to  be  a  Bishop. 
Today  you've  made  an  enemy  of  every  influential  man 
in  the  church.  All  that  may  be  very  noble,  but  I'm  not 
noble,  and  I  don't  pretend  to  be.  I  don't  feel  any  call 
to  sacrifice  myself  for  others,  and  I  don't  think  you 
have  any  right  to  ask  it!  (She  turns  away  from  him 
and  walks  a  step  R.  He  follows  her  and  takes  her  hand.) 

DANIEL.    I  do  ask  it,  Clare. 

CLARE.  (Extricates  her  hand)  You  mean  you're 
going  on  like  this? 

DANIEL.  I  mean  I  can't  give  you  expensive  clothes, 
and  servants,  and  a  big  house  while  all  about  us  people 
are  hungry. 

CLARE.   What  do  you  propose  to  give  me  ? 

DANIEL.    A  chance  to  help. 

CLARE.  To  help  wash  the  dishes,  I  suppose,  in  a 
three-room  flat. 

DANIEL.  And  to  visit  the  sick,  and  befriend  the 
friendless. 

CLARE.  (Crosses  front  of  two  chairs  and  up  above 
chair  L.  )  A  charming  prospect ! 

DANIEL.  (Back  of  R.  chair  L.C.)  It  really  is,  Clare. 
You  don't  know  how  happy  we  can  be  with  work,  and 
our  modest  plenty.  There's  so  much  to  do — and  they 
won't  let  me  do  it  here.  We've  got  to  get  near  the 
people  in  trouble,  and  we  can't  with  a  big  house  and  all 
that.  I  don't  think  we  shall  come  to  a  three-room  flat. 
(He  smiles)  We'll  have  five  or  six  rooms,  and  our 
books,  and  each  other. 

CLARE.    I  can't  believe  you're  serious.    You've  al- 


ACT    ONE  41 

ways  been  a  dreamer,  but  I  can't  believe  you're  going 
through  with  this  fantastic  nonsense ! 

DANIEL.  I  have  chosen  a  narrow  path,  dear,  but  I 
hoped.it  might  be  wide  enough  for  us  both. 

CLARE.  It  isn't !  With  your  means  and  opportunities, 
you're  offering  me  what  any  bank  clerk  would  give  his 
wife.  I  thought  you  loved  me 

DANIEL.    Clare!  '; 

CLARE.  But  you're  utterly  selfish,  and  I  think  a 
little  mad.  You've  a  right  to  throw  away  your  own  life, 
but  you've  no  right  to  throw  away  mine.  Our  engage 
ment  is  ended.  (A  pause.  She  hands  him  his  ring; 
then  starts  for  the  door,  hesitates,  waits  for  him  to  call 
her  back.  When  he  doesn't,  she  returns)  Don't  you 
think  you're  making  a  terrible  mistake? 

DANIEL.     (Looks  up  from  the  ring.    Simply)     No. 

(CLARE  turns  again,  this  time  quickly  and  with  resolu 
tion.  Exit  L.  The  church  is  quite  dark,  except  for 
light  on  chairs,  which  now  begins  to  dim;  the  light 
on  the  cross;  and  that  on  the  tree.  DANIEL  looks 
at  the  ring,  and  puts  it  in  his  pocket.  Goes  up  c. 
and  with  his  back  to  the  audience,  he  looks  at  the 
altar  of  his  church.  Sobs.  Suddenly  from  R.  the 
organ  is  heard,  playing  "Hark,  the  Herald  Angels 
Sing!'  In  the  twilight  he  hears  a  step.  The  POOR 
MAN  has  entered  L.) 

(SPECIAL  NOTE:  The  idea  here  is  that  DANIEL  really 
is  replying  to  a  voice  in  his  own  mind — wrestling 
with  his  better  self.  This  is  easily  conveyed. 
DANIEL  should  never  look  in  the  direction  of  the 
VOICE.  He  comes  down  to  the  lighted  spot  left 
of  the  ladder  and  looks  straight  front.  He  is  much 
agitated,  and  should  pick  up  his  cues  quickly.  His 
tone  is  a  fighting  tone.  When  he  quotes  from  the 
Bible  every  quotation  is  spoken  ironically.  THE 
POOR  MAN'S  VOICE  is  very  calm,  until  he  says  "Did 


'{2  THE    FOOL 

they?'  These  two  words  come  like  the  crack  of  a 
whip,  and  the  rest  of  the  speech  builds  to  the 
climax. ) 

DANIEL.  (Cont.)  Who's  there? — Are  you  looking 
for  someone? 

POOR  MAN.    (Down  L.  in  the  dark)    Yes. 

DANIEL.  (To  ladder)  I'm  the  assistant  rector — 
Mr.  Gilchrist. 

POOR  MAN.   I  know  you,  Mr.  Gilchrist. 

DANIEL.  Oh,  yes,  I  remember.  You're  the  man  who 
Was  cold.  Can  I  do  anything  for  you? 

POOR  MAN.    I  think  you  can. 

DANIEL.    Out  with  it  then. 

POOR  MAN.    Perhaps  I  can  help  you,  too. 

DANIEL.  In  what  way? 

POOR  MAN.   In  my  way. 

DANIEL.  My  poor  man,  I  wish  you  could!  (His 
despair  impels  him  to  confide  in  anyone)  I  was  so  sure 
of  what  I  wanted  to  do,  and  now  I  begin  to  wonder  if 
it  can  be  done! 

POOR  MAN.    It  has  been  done. 

DANIEL.  But  in  this  day — in  this  practical  world — 
can  any  man  follow  the  Master  ? 

POOR  MAN.    Why  not?    Is  this  day  different  from 
my  other?    Was  the  world  never  practical  before?    Is 
| this  the  first  time  of  conflict  between  flesh  and  spirit? 
'If  it  could  be  done  then,  why  not  now,  and  if  it  was 
ever  worth  the  doing,  why  not  now? 

DANIEL.    But  how? 

POOR  MAN.    We  have  been  told  how. 

DANIEL.  "Take  no  thought  of  the  morrow — Sell 
whatsoever  thou  hast,  and  give  to  the  poor — Love  thy 
neighbor  as  thyself — Bless  them  that  curse  you,  do 
good  to  them  that  hate  you."  But  if  a  man  did  those 
things  today  people  would  think  him  mad ! 

POOR  MAN.    What  does  it  matter? 

DANIEL,    He  would  lose  everything ! 


ACT   ONE  43 

POOR  MAN.    And  gain  everything ! 

DANIEL.  What  good  can  one  man  do  ? 

POOR  MAN.    Why  don't  you  try? 

DANIEL.    He  tried,  and  they  crucified  Him ! 

POOR  MAN.  Did  they?  And  if  they  did,  what  does 
that  matter?  Is  a  man  dead  whose  ideal  lives?  Ye 
crucified  me,  but  I  am  with  ye  alway,  even  unto  the 
end  of  the  world! 

DANIEL.    In  God's  name,  who  are  you? 
^       POOR  MAN.    I  am  a  Jew! 

( 

(On  this  cue,  the  Star  of  Bethlehem,  which  should  be 
on  a  dimmer,  slowly  begins  to  glow.  THE  POOR 
.MAN  makes  a  quick,  silent  exit.  The  instant  he  is 
clear  of  the  door,  the  spot  on  R.  side  of  the  border 
falls  where  he  has  stood.  It  is  a  strong  white  light. 
DANIEL  steps  into  the  amber  spot  by  the  chair 
with  both  hands  extended,  and  gives  a  glad  cry  as 
he  realizes  the  nature  of  his  visitation.  On  this  cue, 
the  choir,  offstage  R.,  bursts  into  "Hark,  the  Herald 
Angels  Sing,"  sung  as  a  hymn  of  triumph,  and  the 
curtain  falls.) 

N.B.  The  choir  is  composed  of  members  of  the 
cast  who  can  sing. 

CURTAIN 

One  Picture. 

No  Curtain  Calls. 

32  Minutes. 

NOTE:  The  POOR  MAN  should  NEVER  be  seen  clearly 
enough  to  make  out  who  or  what  he  is.  Only  light 
enough  where  he  stands  to  make  us  suspect  that 
there  IS  a  figure  in  the  doorway.  The  POOR  MAN 
is  prictically  a  voice  in  the  dark.  The  idea  is  that 
he  is  really  a  voice  in  GILCHRIST'S  brain. 


ACT  Two 


SCENE  :   George  F.  Goodkind's  Library,  New  York. 

The  set  has  only  two  essentials — a  wide,  cur 
tained,  glass  door  L.,  and  an  ordinary,  heavy 
wooden  door  down  R.  The  first  gives  entrance  to 
the  music  room,  which  is  indicated  rather  com 
pletely  when  the  door  is  open.  The  second,  by  way 
of  a  hall,  and  a  flight  of  stairs,  not  seen,  leads  to 
the  main  entrance  of  the  house.  For  the  rest,  the 
library  is  a  shallow  room,  very  much  like  any  other 
library  in  the  home  of  any  other  rich  and  well- 
educated  man.  It  is  a  little  richer,  and  more 
luxurious  than  most,  perhaps,  with — here  and 
there — priceless  things  from  palaces  in  Venice  or 
art  collections  in  Rome.  The  obsession  of  busi 
ness  is  suggested  by  various  utilities,  transient  and 
otherwise — a  row  of  law  books,  a  small  file,  and 
a  pile  of  papers  upon  the  substantial  library  table. 
A  mirror  hangs  on  wall  below  door  L. 

The  carpet  is  of  apricot  velour.  The  library  table 
c.,  5^2  ft.  long,  runs  parallel  to  back  wall  which 
obliques  a  little.  In  front  of  table  a  bench  as  long 
as  table.  Back  of  table  a  side  chair,  and  chairs  R. 
and  L.  of  it,  partly  pushed  under  table.  R.C.  an 
armchair,  left  of  which  a  smoking-stand.  L.c. 
similar  armchair,  R.  of  which  a  smoking  stand. 
A  side  chair  above  door  R.,  another  above 
door  L.  Bookcases  against  wall.  R.C.  mahogany 
cabinet  which  serves  as  support  for  a  classic  vase, 
and  as  a  cellarctte  containing  tray  with  decanter 
of  Cognac  and  pony  glasses;  on  lower  shelf,  bottles 

45 


46  THE    FOOL 

etc.  are  visible.  L.  of  cellarette,  a  small  table 
with  silver  humidor  full  of  perfectos.  Up  L.C.  a 
mahogany  cabinet  to  match,  with  vase  to  match. 
Brackets  and  chandelier  lighted  soon  after  curtain 
rises.  Push  button  below  doors  L.  Sivitch  above 
door  R. 

TIME.    Ten  months  later. 

AT  RISE  :  It  is  a  Saturday  evening  in  November,  1919. 
The  GOODKINDS  have  been  entertaining  informally 
at  dinner,  and,  having  finished  the  chief  business  of 
the  occasion,  the  company  is  now  diverting  itself 
in  the  music  room.  This  room  is  brilliantly  il 
luminated,  and  the  doors  are  open.  (They  open 
on  stage. ) 

MRS.  THORNBURY,  in  evening  dress,  is  sitting  on 
the  couch  against  the  upstage  wing  of  the  backing. 

DILLY,  in  evening  dress — a  PINK  frock — is 
standing  at  her  side,  or  sitting  on  the  arm  of  the 
couch.  They  are  engaged  in  lively  chatter.  Before 
the  curtain  rises,  a  piano  is  heard  brilliantly  playing 
the  ragtime  melody  popular  in  1919  and  known  as 
"N 'Everything!'  When  the  curtain  is  well  up,  a 
SERVANT  with  a  card  tray,  enters  R.,  crosses,  exit 
L.,  and  disappears  into  the  music  room,  remaining 
out  of  sight  long  enough  to  have  given  the  card  to 
GOODKIND.  THE  SERVANT  then  re-enters,  re- 
crosses,  and  re-exits,  stopping  en  route  to  switch 
on  the  lights  from  the  switch  above  the  door  R. 
Up  to  this  moment,  the  stage,  except  for  the  room 
off-stage,  has  been  in  pitch  darkness.  The  switch 
turns  on  the  chandelier,  and  the  wall  brackets, 
rather  brilliantly  illuminating  the  stage.  In  other 
words,  the  footlights  and  border  go  more  than  half 
on,  and,  if  possible,  a  spot  from  the  music  room 
highlights  the  table  c.,  and  the  bench  directly  in 
front  of  it.  As  the  SERVANT  exits,  GOODKIND, 


ACT   TWO  47 

in  evening  clothes,  enters  L.  He  has  the  card  in  his 
hand.  He  walks  directly  to  the  table,  and,  as  he 
reaches  it,  BENFIELD,  also  in  evening  clothes, 
enters  L. 

BEN  FIELD.   What  the  h 

GOOD  KIND.    Shut  the  door. 

(BENFIELD  does  so.  As  he  returns  GOODKIND  gives 
him  the  card.  GOODKIND  stands  upstage  of  table, 
picks  up  sheet  of  paper,  reads  it,  and  tears  it  up.) 

BENFIELD.  (Upstage  L.  of  table.  Reads  card) 
"Labor  conciliators."  (Throws  the  card  on  the  table) 
What  the  h 

GOODKTND.  (Above  table)  What  are  labor  concili 
ators  ?  Mostly  thugs.  When  you've  been  director  in  a 
coal  mining  company  a  little  longer,  you'll  know.  I've 
got  a  million  dollars  worth  of  'em  handling  the  strike. 

BENFIELD.    Police  duty? 

GOODKIND.  (Crosses  to  table  up  R.  and  picks  up 
humidor)  No;  spies  and  agents  provocateur.  I  hate 
the  breed,  but  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  This 
fellow,  Max  Stedtman,  got  into  the  union  five  or  six 
years  ago,  and  now  he's  one  of  the  delegation  they've 
sent  up  to  me. — Where's  Jerry?  (Around  R.c.  to  front 
of  bench.) 

BENFIELD.  I  gave  him  the  high  sign.  (To  L.  and 
below  bench.) 

GOODKIND.    (Offering  cigars)    Smoke? 

BENFIELD.  (Sits  on  bench.  Takes  cigar)  Thanks. — 
Why  didn't  you  go  down  to  West  Virginia? 

GOODKIND.  (Returns  to  up  R.  and  places  humidor 
on  R.  upper  corner  of  table)  Had  to  look  over  that 
power  plant  in  Canada. 

BENFIELD.    Oh,  yes! 

GOODKIND.  Anyway,  what  do  I  know  about  coal 
mining  ? 


48  THE    FOOL 

BENFIELD.    You're  president  of  the  company. 

GOODKIND.  (Clips  his  cigar)  Yes,  but  that  means 
digging  up  money — not  coal.  (Offers  BENFIELD  light. 
BENFIELD  shakes  head.  Prefers  a  "dry"  smoke)  I've 
never  set  foot  in  West  Virginia  in  my  life,  and  I  don't 
want  to ! 

BENFIELD.  Yes,  but  in  a  serious  situation  like 
this 

GOODKIND.  I  sent  Jerry.  Jerry  has  a  dozen  qualifica 
tions  and  no  scruples.  And  I  sent  Gilchrist. 

BENFIELD.    Who  has  scruples  and  no  qualifications. 

GOODKIND.  (Sits  R.,  lights  cigar)  Thus  striking 
balance.  I  mean  that !  Don't  make  any  mistake  about 
Gilchrist.  He's  a  valuable  man.  I  didn't  hire  him  be 
cause  I  was  sorry  he  got  fired  out  of  the  church — and 
only  a  little  because  I  knew  his  father.  I  hired  him 
because  he  had  theories,  and  I  wanted  to  try  "em  out! 

BENFIELD.    I'll  say  he's  got  theories ! 

GOODKIND.  Yes,  and  the  remarkable  part  of  it  is — 
sometimes  they  work.  They  worked  up  at  that  power 
plant.  A  year  ago  I  wouldn't  have  taken  it  as  a  gift. 
Gilchrist  applied  a  little  soft  soap 

BENFIELD.    Soft  soap  or  gold  dust  ? 

(Enter  JERRY  L.  smoking  cigarette.  He  is  a  little  sul 
len — the  result  of  brandy  and  resentment.  He, 
too,  is  in  evening  clothes.  He  closes  the  door 
behind  him.) 

GOODKIND.  Well,  both;  but,  damn  it,  Charlie,  with 
all  the  increased  wages  and  decreased  working  hours 
the  plant's  making  money  now  for  the  first  time! 
There's  something  in  Gilchrist! 

JERRY.   Yes,  bats  in  his  belfry ! 

GOODKIND.    All  right! 

JERRY.  (Betzueen  chair  L.C.  and  table)  I  told  you 
what  he  was  doing  at  the  mines.  Now  he  wires  you, 
"Everything  settled  if  you  accede  to  rational  condi- 


ACT    TWO  49 

tions,"  and  up  comes  this  delegation!  What  are  the 
conditions  ?  I'll  tell  you  now — surrender !  You're  crazy 
if  you  see  these  workmen !  We've  nothing  to  discuss ! 
They're  our  mines,  and  we'll  run  'em  as  we  like!  If 
this  philanthropist  of  yours  carries  out  instructions 
we've  got  'em  whipped! — What  was  the  idea  of  the 
high  sign? 

GOODKIND.    Stedtman. 

JERRY.  W^here  is  he  ? 

GOODKIND.    On  the  way  up, 

JERRY.    Of  course,  we're  leaving  our  guests  flat ! 

BENFIELD.   Your  wife's  in  there ! 

JERRY.  (Turns  up  around  chair  L.C.)  Clare  resents 
our  talking  business  at  home. 

GOODKIND.  Resents — and  you  haven't  been  married 
a  year !  Palaver's  a  wife's  job !  They  oil  the  machinery 
while  we  shovel  in  coal! 

v 
(THE  SERVANT  enters  R.) 

SERVANT.    Mr.  Stedtman. 

(Enter  MAX  STEDTMAN.  He  is  a  wiry  little  man,  with 
the  face  of  a  ferret  and  the  furtiveness  of  a  rat. 
His  nervousness  does  not  indicate  lack  of  self- 
confidence.  That  quality  has  made  STEDTMAN  the 
man  he  is  today.  For  the  rest,  he  is  forty,  and 
faintly  Semitic.  The  SERVANT  exits,  closes  door.) 

GOODKIND.  (Rising)  How  do,  Stedtman?  This  is 
Mr.  Benfield — one  of  our  new  directors.  (They  ac 
knowledge  the  introduction,  BENFIELD  giving  a  curt, 
comedy  grunt)  You  know  my  son. 

STEDTMAN.  (Nods)  Saw  him  down  to  Black  River. 
How  are  yer  ? 

(JERRY  sits  down  L.;  BENFIELD  stands  L.  of  table. 
GOODKIND  sits  back  of  it;  STEDTMAN  stands  R.) 


50  THE    FOOL 

GOODKIND.   Well  ? 

STEDTMAN.  Well — the  committee's  on  its  way.  (On 
tine  with  chair  up  C.R.  of  table.) 

GOODKIND.   Who's  in  this  delegation? 

STEDTMAN.  I'm  Chairman.  We've  got  a  Pole  called 
Umanski. 

(Cue  for  Walts.  "SONG  OF  THE  ROSE."  Refrain  played 
twice  on  violin  and  piano.  The  opening  fox  trot 
was  "N' Everything"  and  the  chorus  of  that  was 
played  twice.) 

GOODKIND.    (Writes)    Umanski. 

STEDTMAN.  He's  a  radical.  You  can't  do  anything 
with  him.  But  there's  a  fellow  named  Joe  Hennig 

GOODKIND.    Who'll  listen  to  reason? 

STEDTMAN.   I  think  so. 

GOODKIND.     Why? 

STEDTMAN.    He's  got  a  pretty  wife. 

BENFIELD.   What  the  h (  (To- 

GOODKIND.    What  has  that  to  do  with  it?  $gether) 

STEDTMAN.  Lots.  Pretty  wives  like  pretty  things. 
(BENFIELD  quietly  sits  L.  of  table)  Hennig's  in  debt, 
and  this  girl's  on  his  neck  every  minute.  She's  a  peach. 
You  know  her,  Mr.  Jerry? 

JERRY.    No. 

STEDTMAN.    Pearl  Hennig? 

JERRY.     (Emphatically)     No. 

STEDTMAN.  Oh!  (There  is  comedy  here  by  STEDT- 
MAN'S  saying  "Oh!"  in  exactly  the  same  tone  in  which 
JERRY  said  "No")  I  thought  I  saw  you  talking  to  her 
once.  Anyway,  Gilchrist  knows  her — well. 

BENFIELD.   You  mean 

STEDTMAN.  I  mean  I  wouldn't  mention  Gilchrist  to 
Joe  Hennig. 

GOODKIND.   That's  rot! 

STEDTMAN.  (Back  of  chair  R.  of  table)  Anyhow, 
Hennig  and  me  are  two  votes,  and  I  figure  Hennig's 


ACT   TWO  51 

will  cost  about — (He  looks  at  them  narrowly) — fifteen 
thousand  dollars. 

(ALL  THREE  show  surprise.) 

GOODKIND.    I  don't  like  bribery. 

BENFIELD.    Not  when  it  isn't  necessary. 

GOODKIND.  And  Gilchrist  wired  yesterday :  "Every 
thing  settled." 

JERRY.    On  conditions. 

STEDTMAN.  Yeh — on  their  conditions !  Take  it  from 
me,  this  Gilchrist  has  double-crossed  you! 

BENFIELD.    I  told  you!  {      (Together.) 

JERRY.    He's  a J 

STEDTMAN.  (Goes  right  on,  without  heeding  the 
simultaneous  interruption)  He's  been  at  union  meet 
ings  !  He  got  'em  to  send  this  delegation,  and  he  tried 
to  get  'em  to  turn  down  Hennig — our  one  best  bet! 
You  take  it  from  me 

GOODKIND.  (Quietly)  I  won't  take  it  from  you, 
Stedtman.  (He  fixes  STEDTMAN  with  his  eyes  until 
STEDTMAN  quails  and  slinks  back.  Then  he  looks  at 
BENFIELD  and  JERRY,  and  says  quietly)  Or  from  any 
body  else.  I  know  this  man. 

(NOTE:  The  keynote  of  STEDTMAN'S  character  is  tliat 
he  always  goes  as  far  as  he  dares — insolently  when 
he  gets  worked  up — and  quickly  slinks  back  when 
he  is  "called."  He  gets  at  the  top  of  his  impudence 
twice  in  this  scene — each  time  being  a  small  climax. 
The  first  time  is  tJiat  above.  The  second  time  is 
when  he  says  "Blame  GILCHRIST,"  which  is  a 
distinct  climax.  On  his  two  long  speeches  he  takes 
stage,  delivering  the  speeches  as  though  he  were 
addressing  an  audience — making  broad  gestures, 
indicating  an  imaginary  billboard,  etc.) 


52  THE    FOOL 

STEDTMAN.  (Cowed)  Well,  he's  gone  around  talkin' 
compromise. 

GOODKIND.    Oh,  compromise ! 

STEDTMAN.  Compromise  ain't  no  way  to  settle  a 
strike.  Givin'  'em  confidence.  Why,  we  got  a  couple  o' 
hundred  representatives  among  the  workmen  tellin'  'em 
they  got  no  chance.  We  got  special  police  dubbin'  'em 
every  time  they  try  to  hold  a  meeting.  You  wouldn't 
believe  what  we  done  down  there  in  the  way  of 
harmony ! 

GOODKIND.    It's  all  been  done  before. 

STEDTMAN.  Never  no  completer!  We're  workin' 
the  black  list  and,  if  a  man  opens  his  mouth  too  wide 
at  a  meeting,  somebody — he  don't  know  who — tips  the 
government  that  he's  a  "red."  We  got  'em  so  they 
ain't  sure  of  their  own  brothers.  We're  postin'  bills, 
in  seven  languages,  saying:  "Why  should  work-men 
mistrust  the  company  ?  This  is  the  land  of  opportunity ! 
America  is  calling  you— GO  BACK  TO  WORK!" 
The  boss  has  a  scheme  now  to  start  a  riot  between  the 
Poles  and  the  Wops!  And  you  know  the  end  o' 
that!  Troops,  and  scabs,  and  machine  guns!  What 
stopped  it?  One  gent  that  don't  know  nothin'  about 
harmony,  or  co-operation,  or  nothin' — except  hanging 
around  after  a  skirt !  If  you  got  to  descend  to  bribery 
now,  don't  blame  me — blame  Gilchrist! 

BENFIELD.  (Striking  the  table  with  his  open  hand) 
He's  absolutely  right ! 

JERRY.  Of  course,  he's  right!  Wha'd'ya  expect  of 
a  man  kicked  out  of  his  church  for  Bolshevism? 

BENFIELD.    He  ought  to  be  brought  back  right  now ! 

GOODKIND.  He's  coming  back!  (SERVANT  enters 
R.)  Yes;  what  is  it? 

SERVANT.    Two  men  to  see  Mr.  Stedtman. 

BENFIELD.     Good ! 

GOODKIND.    Bring  them  in!    (SERVANT  exits.) 

STEDTMAN.   (He  ivaits  until  the  door  is  safely  closed) 


ACT    TWO  53 

Now  look— don't  try  nothin'  before  Umanski!  Just 
give  us  an  excuse  to  vote  right,  and  then  we'll  go  out, 
and  get  rid  of  him,  and  I'll  slip  back  with  Hennig! 
(HENNIG'S  voice  off  R.)  Now  then — (His  sharp  ears 
liave  heard  JOE'S  voice  off  R.  He  strikes  a  pose.)  It's 
very  good  of  you  gentlemen  to  see  us!  I  was  goin* 
to  meet  my  friends  outside — (The  SERVANT  ushers  in 
JOE  HENNIG) — but  you  been  so  kind  and  agreeable- 
Hello,  Joe!  (He  says  this  very  heartily,  and  shakes 
hands  with  JOE,  who  immediately  slips  around  back  of 
chair  R.,  and  goes  upstage  after  "Hello,  MAX  !",  leaving 
STEDTMAN  facing  the  door.) 

(Violinist  off  stage  playes  Barcarolle  with  piano  ac 
companiment.  Played  through  once,  beginning  as 
UMANSKI  enters.) 

JOE.    Hello,  Max! 
(Enter  UMANSKI.    Exit  SERVANT.) 

UMANSKI.   You  said  you  be  on  the  sidewalk. 

STEDTMAN.  I  just  really  got  in  myself.  This  is  Mr. 
Goodkind.  He's  the  President.  And  a  couple  o*  di 
rectors.  Well,  now  we  can  get  down  to  business. 

(He  takes  stage.  HENNIG  is  now  up  RV  near  the  chair 
R.  of  table.  STEDTMAN  is  just  below  him. 
UMANSKI  is  downstage  R.  of  chair  R,C.) 

(UMANSKI  stares  in  amazement  at  his  temerity. 
UMANSKI  is  a  giant  Pole  or  Russian.  Whatever 
flesh  he  ever  had  has  been  starved  off ;  he  is  all 
bone  and  brawn.  In  his  face  is  something  strangely 
like  poetry,  something  born  of  silence  and  sufer- 
ing.  He  is  in  his  best,  which  does  not  obliterate  the 
picture  of  the  man  in  working  clothes,  his  sleeves 


54  THE    FOOL 

rolled  up  over  his  muscular  arms.  HEN  NIG  is  a 
stocky  man  of  45 — a  "grouser."  His  tone  has 
none  of  the  courage,  the  dignity,  the  independence 
of  UMANSKI'S  ;  he  blusters,  emptily,  an  echo,  with 
out  much  to  say,  and  one  guesses  he  might  be  made 
to  bluster  either  way.  There  is  a  pause.) 

GOODKIND.   Smoke  ? 

(He  presents  the  humidor  to  HENNIG,  who  accepts  a 
cigar.  STEDTMAN  reaches  over  and  helps  himself. 
GOODKIND  goes  on  to  UMANSKI,  who  never  takes 
his  eyes  from  the  face  of  GOODKIND,  and  quietly 
folds  his  arms  behind  his  back,  refusing  a  cigar. 
GOODKIND  shuts  the  box  with  a  click,  returns,  and 
sets  it  upper  right  end  of  table.  GOODKIND  sits 
back  of  table.) 

Well? 

JOE.  (Crosses  above  STEDTMAN  to  R.  of  GOODKIND) 
Well,  I  guess  you  know  all  about  our  grievances. 

GOODKIND.    I  didn't  know  you  had  any. 

JOE.    You  didn't  know  we  had  any ? 

BENFIELD.    Ah,  you  fellows  are  never  satisfied! 

GOODKIND.  You're  getting  plenty  for  what  you  do ! 
What  are  you  complaining  about?  You've  left  good 
jobs  to  follow  a  lot  of  idle,  discontented  agitators! 
We've  got  to  win  this  fight  on  principle!  The  work's 
there!  I  pay  what  I  can  get  men  for,  and  not  a  cent 
more!  Take  it  or  leave  it! 

JOE.   We  got  to  hang  together  to  get  anything ! 

GOODKIND.   You're  hanging,  and  what  have  you  got? 

(JoE  motions  to  STEDTMAN  to  start  something.) 
STEDTMAN.    I — eh — well 


ACT    TWO  55 

/ 

(In  the  scene  that  follows,  UMANSKI  practically  de 
livers  a  monologue.  He  pays  no  attention  to  cues, 
and  talks  through  every  interruption.  Their  only 
effect  is  to  make  him  lift  his  voice  above  the  others, 
and  talk  them  down.  That  is,  after  cue  "your  son!" 
He  builds  to  a  climax  as  he  goes  on.  With  "yes, 
work  tivelve  hours  a  day  and  got  enough  to  eat"  a 
fighting  tone  comes  into  his  voice.) 

UMANSKI.  I  work  twelve  hours — every  day — thurty 
years — got  nothing. 

BENFIELD.  Why  should  you  have?  An  untrained 
man 

JERRY.    You  don't  even  know  English 

UMANSKI.  How  I  gonna  learn  English — work  twelve 
hours  a  day  ? 

JERRY.  Nobody  asked  you  to  take  the  job !  Nobody 
asked  you  to  come  over  here !  You're  not  an  American ! 

UMANSKI.     I  was  American. 

JERRY:    (Sneers)    When? 

UMANSKI.  When  I  fight  in  the  war.  (A  short 
pause.) 

JERRY.  (Rises,  goes  up  R.  and  turns  to  GOODKIND) 
We're  not  getting  anywhere.  We've  been  over  this  a 
dozen  times ! 

GOODKIND.   What  do  you  want? 

UMANSKI.  I  wanna  chance  to  learn!  I  wanna 
chance  to  live !  I  wanna  see — sun ! 

JERRY.    Wha'dya  mean — son?  1      (Together.) 

GOODKIND.    Your  son  ?  j 

UMANSKI.  God's  sun.  I  never  see  him.  Go  to  mines 
— him  not  up.  Work  in  mines — him  not  see.  Go  home 
— him  gone^_ 

JERRY.  You  can't  dig  coal  in  a  rose  garden.  (Down 
to  chair  L.C.) 

UMANSKI.  Got  baby  five  years  ago.  Never  see  him. 
Go  to  mines — him  not  up.  Come  back — him  sleep.  Go 
home  one  day — him  gone. 


•56  THE    FOOL 

GOODKIND.    Dead  ? 

UMANSKI.  (Nods)  My  wife  say:  "Good!  Not 
such  many  to  feed!" 

JERRY.  When  you  worked  you  had  enough  to  eat, 
didn't  you?  (Takes  out  gold  cigarette  case.) 

UMANSKI.  Yes.  Work  twelve  hours  a  day  and  got 
enough  to  eat — so  can  work  some  more.  Always  work. 
Get  up — work — come  back — sleep — get  up — work. 
Never  got  time  to  talk  to  wife — never  got  time  to  talk 
to  nobody— never  got  nowhere.  Never  save  nothing. 

JOE.    (Whining)    It  ain't  fair! 

UMANSKI.  (Coming  fonvard  to  R.  lower  edge  of 
'table  c.  STEDTMAN  up  R.  of  table.  HENNIG  up  extreme 
R.)  That  little  box — what  you  pay  for  him?  (JERRY 
turns  front,  not  deigning  to  answer,  puts  case  away) 
Ah,  I  know ;  gold.  You  pay  more  for  him  than  I  got 
out  of  swing  pick  thirty  years.  Me  and  six  families — 
we  live  in  one  house  you  own.  (He  says  this  directly 
to  GOODKIND.) 

GOODKIND.    Why,  we  spent  thou 

UMANSKI.  We  got  one  room  upstairs;  two  down 
cellar.  Sleep  there.  Eat — cook — wash  upstairs.  See 
nothing  but  brick  yard,  and  clothes  hang  up  to  dry. 
Wife — she  carry  water  from  yard.  Me — I  carry  potato 
peeling  and  such  things  out  front.  Him  rot.  If  I  don't 
like  that,  I  quit — and  starve ! 

JERRY.    You  want  to  live  on  Fifth  Avenue! 

BENFIELD.  And  then  you'd  find  something  to  kick 
about ! 

UMANSKI.  If  I  don't  like,  other  mans  will.  Other 
mans  take  my  job.  I  got  little  girl  twenty  years  old. 
Awful  pretty  little  girl.  Got  gold  hair.  Got  blue  eyes. 
Her  take  sick.  She  sorry  she's  sick.  She  wanna  go 
church.  She  ask  me:  "Pop,  buy  me  new  dress  for 
church.  Buy  me  pretty  pink  dress."  She  all  the  time 
ask  me.  Where  I  get  him  ?  We  hire  doctor  once,  and 
he  say :  "Air — sunshine — milk — eggs !"  Where  I  gonna 
get  air — sunshine — milk — eggs?  Got  no  job. 


ACT    TWO  57 

BENFIELD.    Well — now. 

UMANSKI.  (Throughout  this,  standing  at  R.  near 
edge  of  table,  he  has  delivered  his  sympathetic  lines  to 
GOODKINI>— sensing  that  GOODKIND  is  sorry  for  him — 
and  has  blazed  his  angry  lines  at  BENFIELD.  With  "I 
tell  you  we  got  a  right  to  quit"  he  begins  slowly  walk 
ing  in  front  of  the  table  toward  the  doors  L.  JERRY 
comes  down  to  get  between  him  and  the  doors.  At  "we 
gonna  fight,"  BENFIELD  rises,  with  his  fists  clinched, 
ready  to  throw  UMANSKI  out  if  necessary.  GOODKIND 
rises.  UMANSKI  builds  this  speech  until  at  "By  God!" 
he  is  standing  at  L.  end  of  table,  with  his  hands  in  the 
air,  appealing  to  God,  a  figure  representing  the  wrongs 
of  Labor  through  all  the  ages)  My  little  girl,  she  cough, 
and  cough*  and  one  night  she  die.  I  tell  you  we  got  a 
right  to  quit !  Wre  got  a  right  to  hang  together !  (Fac 
ing  BENFIELD)  We  got  a  right  to  fight — to  live — and, 
by  God,  we  gonna  fight — we  gonna  live — we  gonna — 
by  God! 

(DiLLY  runs  into  room  from  L.  She  has  gold  hair; 
she  has  blue  eyes,  and  what  is  more,  she  has  a  new 
dress.  It  is  a  "pretty  pink  dress"  too,  and  its 
owner  wears  jewels  worth  the  ransom  of  a  dozen 
UMANSKIS.  Without  turning  from  UMANSKI, 
JERRY  puts  out  his  arm  to  stop  DILLY.  She  is  not 
aware  of  UMANSKI  until  she  is  checked  by  his  arm. 
Then  she  stands  quite  still  staring  at  him  in  amaze 
ment.) 

DILLY.  (As  she  enters)  Now,  look  here,  Jerry, 
you're  not  going  to 

(UMANSKI  and  DILLY  are  motionless,  staring  at  each 
other.  She  docs  not  know  zvhat  to  make  of  him. 
He  is  almost  persuaded  that  he  is  looking  at  his 
own  dead  child.  Suddenly  he  covers  his  face  with 
his  arm  and,  with  a  great  sob,  drops  upon  the  bench. 


58  THE    FOOL 

As  he  sinks  down,  the  piano  and  violin  offstage 
strike  up  a  fox-trot,  "How  You  Gonna  Keep  'Em 
Down  On  The  Farm."  The  first  bar  is  played  as 
loudly  as  possible,  and  then  the  music  softens  to 
close.  The  chorus  only  is  played  and  that  only 
once.  GOODKIND  looks  at  UMANSKI  sympathetical 
ly  and  walks  around  the  R.  side  of  the  table  down 
stage  R.C.) 

DILLY.    I'm  so  sorry! 

JERRY.    You'll  have  to  wait,  Dilly. 

GOODKIND.  (Doivn  R.C.)  Ask  the  ladies  to  stay  in 
the  drawing  room.  We'll  join  them  in  a  few  minutes. 

DILLY.  (Goes  L.  followed  by  JERRY)  Yes — cer 
tainly — I'm  so  sorry!  (Exit.  JERRY  closes  door  L.) 

(UMANSKI'S  eyes  stare  at  the  door  through  which 
DILLY  has  disappeared.  A  pause.  Offstage  MRS. 
GILLIAM  is  heard  to  say  (  Oh,  Dilly,  look!"  and 
DILLY  laughs  loudly.  GOODKIND  is  at  R.  end  of 
bench.  JOE  HENNIG  is  upstage  R.C.  STEDTMAN 
is  behind  the  chair  R.C.) 

GOODKIND.  I  think  we'd  better  let  this  go  for  to 
night.  (Comes  down  R.  of  table.) 

UMANSKY.  (Looks  toward  L.  where  DILLY  has 
gone.  Rises)  Oh,  no! — Me — I'm  all  right!  Excuse! 

GOODKIND.  You're  a  little  upset,  and  I  have  guests. 
Besides,  Gilchrist  will  be  here  in  half  an  hour,  and  I 
want  to  talk  to  him  before  I  say  anything  definite.  Sup 
pose  we  all  meet  here  tomorrow,  at  noon. 

JOE.  (At  RV  turns  down  angrily  at  mention  of  the 
name)  Not  Gilchrist! 

GOODKIND.  No ;  just  we  six — and,  maybe,  one  or 
two  more  of  our  directors. 

STEDTMAN.    All  right! 

UMANSKI.  I  wanna  know  tonight  what  we  gonna  do ! 

GOODKIND.     We're  going  to  get  together.     You  fel- 


ACT    TWO  59 

lows  have  got  the  wrong  idea.  We're  not  tyrants,  or 
monsters.  We're  Christians,  and  we  want  to  act  like 
.Christians.  Only — we've  got  to  live  too.  We've  got 
to  have  the  things  we're  used  to,  just  as  you  have.  But 
I  think  I  can  promise  if  the  strike's  called  off,  you  men 
will  be  kept,  and  put  back  just  where  you  were.  {He 
says  this  with  all  the  kindness  and  warmth  in  the  world; 
as  though  he  were  promising  something  magnificent. 
UMANSKI,  deceived  by  his  tone,  shows  growing  hope 
up  to  "will  be  kept  and  put  back''  but  his  face  falls 
when  he  hears  "just  where  you  were.")  Ring  the  bell, 
Jerry. 

(JERRY  does  so;  a  pause.) 

BENFIELD.  (Up  L.)  I  guess  you  don't  want  me  any 
more. 

GOODKIND.     (R.C.)     No. 

"BENFIELD.    Thanks.     (Exit  L.    A  pause.) 

GOODKIND.  (Turns  R.  to  HENNIG,  making  conver 
sation.  STEDTMAN  crosses  quietly  upstage  to  UMAN 
SKI,  and  urges  him,  in  pantomime,  to  "forget  it."  Both 
have  backs  to  audience.  UMANSKI  is  looking  after 
DILLY.)  You  live  in  Black  River? 

JOE.    Yes. 

GOODKIND.     Married  ? 

JOE.  You  betcha!  Prettiest  girl  in  West  Virginia! 
We  only  been  married  a  year.  I  got  her  in  the  five- 
and-ten-cent  store.  (GOODKIND  shows  surprise)  I— 
mean,  that's  where  she  was  working.  She's  at  her 
sister's  now — up  to  Pittsburg.  Left  the  day  before  I 
was  elected  to  come  here.  (Proudly)  I  sent  her  a 
telegram ! 

GOODKIND.  You  don't  say  so!  (To  JERRY)  Any 
thing  the  matter  with  that  bell  ? 

JERRY.  (L.)  The  man's  busy,  I  suppose.  I'll  show 
them  out.  (Crosses  at  back  to  door  R.) 


60  THE    FOOL 

GOODKIND.  If  you  will  —  Well,  goodnight!  (He 
shakes  hands  with  HENNIG.) 

HEN  NIG.  Goodnight.  (Goes  to  door  R.  STEDTMAN 
crosses  R.  GOODKIND  offers  hand  to  UMANSKI,  but 
that  giant  is  immobile.  His  slow  mind  has  been  think 
ing  out  the  earlier  declaration.) 

UMANSKI.  (c.)  What  about  this  here  twelve-hour 
day? 

GOODKIND.  (R.C.)  Well  consider  that  after  the 
strike's  called  off. 

UMANSKI.    And  the  twenty-four  hour  shift? 

GOODKIND.  We'll  consider  that,  too.  Meanwhile  — 
you  go  back  just  where  you  were  ! 

UMANSKI.    Then  what  good  we  gain  by  strike? 

GOODKIND.  Nothing's  ever  gained  by  quarreling. 
You'll  find  that  out  some  day. 

UMANSKI.  Some  day  something  be  gain  !  Some  day 
we  gonna  win!  This  —  (Indicates  with  his  head)  can't 
go  on  always!  You  see!  (To  GOODKIND:  who  goes 
up  R.  of  table.) 

JERRY.     (At  door.    Insolently)    Are  you  ready? 

(Exit  HENNIG.) 

UMANSKI.  (Crosses  to  JERRY  as  though  he  were 
going  to  strike  him.  When  he  reaches  JERRY,  stands 
still  and  looks  him  over  with  huge  contempt.)  You 
see!  (Exit*.) 

STEDTMAN.  (Significantly,  in  a  loud  whisper)  Well 
be  back  later.  (Exit  R.) 

JERRY.  Swine!    (Exit.) 


gives  a  sigh,  obviously  worried  by  the  in 
terview,  goes  to  the  table,  and  rights  the  topmost 
paper.  Looks  at  it.  Sits,  and  examines  other 
papers.  The  SERVANT  enters  R.  with  box  contain 
ing  fur  neckpiece.) 


ACT    TWO  61 

SERVANT.    Did  you  ring,  sir  ? 

GOODKIND.    Half  an  hour  ago. 

SERVANT.  (Indicating  a  box)  I  was  signing  for 
this.  ( GOODKIND,  writing,  doesn't  look  up)  Can  \ 
do  anything  for  you,  sir  ? 

GOODKIND.    Yes — Get  me  a  drink. 

(The  SERVANT  lays  box  on  chair  R.C.  Goes  to  GOOD- 
KIND  for  key,  R.  of  GOODKIND  above  table.  GOOD- 
KIND  takes  key-ring  from  pocket,  selects  key  and 
gives  to  him.  SERVANT  unlocks  a  cellarette,  up  R., 
takes  out  decanter  and  glasses,  relocks  the  cellar 
ette,  comes  down  L.  of  table,  with  tray  in  one  hand, 
key  dancing  from  other  hand,  sets  down  the  tray, 
and  returns  the  key,) 

Thanks. 

(SERVANT  gets  box,  starts  to  exit  L.   Enter  CLARE,  c.) 

Oh,  and  Riggs!  If  Mr.  Stedtman  comes  back  later — - 
with  one  of  the  other  men — I'll  see  them  in  here. 

SERVANT.  Very  good,  sir.  (To  CLARE)  This 
package  just  came  for  you,  Madam.  (He  gives  her  the 
box.  Exit  L.  A  pause.) 

GOODKIND.    Everybody  gone? 

(Light  in  music  room  is  dimmed.) 

CLARE.  (Sits  L.  end  of  bench)  They're  all  down 
in  the  billiard  room.  We  wanted  to  make  up  a  couple 
of  tables  of  bridge,  but  with  the  men  in  here — as  usual 
— Where's  Jerry?  (Untying  string  on  box.) 

GOODKIND.     I  don't  know. 

CLARE.    I've  seen  him  just  ten  minutes  this  week. 

GOODKIND.    He's  only  been  back  three  hours. 

CLARE.  Well — I  wish  he  wouldn't  break  up  my  din 
ner  parties. 


62  THE    FOOL 

GOODKIND.  (Pushes  back  papers)  What  have  you 
got  there  ? 

CLARE.  (Looking  at  contents  of  box)  Another — 
substitute 

GOODKIND.  Substitute,  for  what?  (Rises,  and 
comes  down  R.  to  front  of  table.) 

CLARE.  (As  she  opens  it)  For  my  husband's  time 
— and  love — and  companionship.  (Holds  up  a  sable 
scarf)  Sables.  (She  shows  it  to  GOODKIND.) 

GOODKIND.  (Sits  R.  end  of  bench.  The  box  is  be 
tween  them.  Looks  at  it  with  admiration)  Hm!  You 
don't  seem  much  surprised. 

CLARE.  No — Whenever  Jerry's  been  away  longer 
than  usual,  or  done  something  he's  a  little  ashamed  of, 
there's  a  box  from  Tiffany's  or  Revillon.  (Puts  back 
furs.) 

GOODKIND.  Ah,  yes — er (Handling  them  ad 
miringly)  Must  have  been  a  whopper  this  time! 

CLARE.     (Seriously,  wondering)     Yes? 

GOODKIND.  (Looks  sharply  at  her)  Pretty  gener 
ous  husband — if  you  ask  me! 

CLARE.    (Sighs)    Yes.    (She  puts  the  box  on  table.) 

(NOTE:  CLARE  has  put  the  top  of  this  box  under 
neath  it,  so  that  she  lifts  the  whole  thing  with  one 
hand  and,  reaching  between  herself  and  GOODKIND, 
places  the  box  out  of  the  way  on  the  R.  end  of 
table.) 

GOODKIND.  Upon  my  word,  I  don't  know  what  you 
women  want ! — A  man  works  his  heart  and  soul  out  to 
get  you  things ;  and  still  you're  not  satisfied ! 

CLARE.  Perhaps  we'd  like  a  little  ' 'heart  and  soul." 
GOODKIND.  Heart  and  soul,  and  what  a  man  trades 
'em  for !  You  want  your  husband  to  succeed,  and  give 
all  his  attention  to  you !  You  want  him  to  have  plenty 
of  money,  and  plenty  of  time !  You're  willing  to  take 
everything,  but  you're  not  willing  to  pay  for  it ! 


ACT    TWO  63 

CLARE.    (Sighs)    I  suppose  everybody  must  pay. 

GOODKIND.  Surest  thing  you  know!  You  women 
are  all  alike.  My  poor  wife — she  had  everything,  and 
I  used  to  catch  her  crying  in  a  corner.  We  never 
seemed  to  understand  each  other — after  we  got  this. 
She  was  a  good  wife,  too — but  the  best  of  you  never 
seem  to  want  what  you  have — Sometimes  I  think  none 
of  us  really  want  what  we  struggle  so  hard  to  get. 
Sometimes  I  think  we're  all  wrong!  (Rises)  Well, 
I  guess  I'll  go  downstairs!  (Goes  R.C.) 

CLARE.  (Rising,  goes  L.CV  beginning  to  cry)  I  wish 
you  would. 

GOODKIND.  (Looks  at  her  from  R.C.)  Um — you're 
not  crying?  (She  turns  her  face  to  him)  My  God! 
Can  you  beat  it  ? 

CLARE.    I'll  be  down  in  a  minute. 

GOODKIND.  (Crosses  back  of  her)  Tell  Riggs — 
will  you? — if  anyone  comes — I'll  be — talking  to  Jerry. 
(He  puts  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  He  is  L.  of  her. 
Kindly)  And — buck  up!  There  are  people  worse  off 
than  we  are — and  it's  a  great  life  if  you  don't  weaken ! 
Buck  up. 

(He  exits  L.  CLARE  dries  her  eyes,  and  is  powdering 
her  nose  at  mirror  L.  when  DANIEL  GILCHRIST 
opens  the  door  R.  He  is  in  business  clothes,  and 
starts  to  retire  when  he  sees  CLARE.  He  would  a 
little  rather  avoid  the  interview.) 

CLARE.  (Catching  reflection  in  mirror)  Oh,  don't 
go !  I  was  just  powdering  my  nose.  Does  that  offend 
your  reverence  ? 

DANIEL.  (R.C.)  On  the  contrary!  I  agree  with  the 
man  who  said,  "Put  your  trust  in  God,  and  keep  your 
powder  dry."  (They  laugh.) 

CLARE.     (To  c.)     When  did  you  get  in? 

DANIEL.    Half  an  hour  ago. 

CLARE.    Had  dinner? 


64  THE    FOOL 

DANIEL.  On  the  train.  I  was  starved.  Thank  good 
ness,  they  don't  charge  for  dinner  by  the  mile ! — Riggs 
said  your  father-in-law  was  in  here. 

CLARE.  He'll  be  up  in  a  moment — won't  you  sit 
down  ? 

DANIEL.     (Starts  to  sit)    Thanks. 

CLARE.  We  haven't  had  five  minutes  together  since 

(Her  speech  stops  him.  She  observes  this  and 

changes  her  tone)  Oh,  do  sit  down.  (Sits  R.  end  of 
bench)  I  understand  you're  very  happy  in  your  new 
— profession. 

DANIEL.     (Sitting)     Yes. 

CLARE.     You've  got — everything — you  want? 

DANIEL.  No,  I  haven't  everything  I  want,  but  I'm 
happy. 

CLARE.  My  father-in-law  tells  me  that  if  you  settle 
this  strike  you're  to  be — but  that's  a  business  secret. 
(A  pause)  I  suppose  I  might  tell  you.  (A  pause) 
He  says  it'll  make  you  a  big  man  in  the  company — with 
a  tremendous  salary — You  mustn't  give  it  away! 

DANIEL.    The  secret? 

CLARE.    The  salary — 

DANIEL.    Oh!     (They  both  laugh.) 

CLARE.  I  suppose  youVe  got  over  that — so — you 
don't  really  seem  to  have  lost  anything  by  giving  up 
your  church. 

DANIEL.  No.  Queer  as  it  seems,  sometimes  I  think 
I've  gained — in  opportunity. 

CLARE.  (Chiefly  to  herself)  Perhaps  one  might  have 
eaten  one's  cake  and  had  it,  too. 

DANIEL.     (Rising)    Clare! 

CLARE.  (Rises.  Crosses  to  him  between  table  and 
chair  R.)  You  frightened  me  so  that  night,  with  the 
bug-a-boo  of  poverty.  Don't  you  think  there  might  have 
been  a  compromise?  Something  half  way? 

DANIEL.  Why  open  wounds  that  are  beginning  to 
heal? 

CLARE.    Yours  seem  quite  healed.    (She  turns  away 


1  .1 


ACT   TWO  65 

from  him,  and  going  to  the  table,  picks  up  the  furs.) 

DANIEL.  (Glancing  at  furs)  And  you?  Have  you 
everything  you  want  ? 

CLARE.    Yes. 

DANIEL.  You  see — I  was  selfish — to  ask  you  to  give 
up  the  things  that  count  so  much  with  you  for  those 
that  count  with  me. — Afterward,  when  I  knew  you 
were  to  be  married — I  was  afraid  for  you — and  I  was 
wrong  again.  You're  happy — and  I'm  honestly  glad! 

CLARE.  (Turning  and  going  to  him)  Are  you — 
honestly — happy  ? 

DANIEL.    Honestly. 

CLARE.    In  just  helping  others  ? 

DANIEL.    In  just  helping  others. 

CLARE.  (Takes  step  to  him  midzvay  between  chair 
and  table)  I  don't  understand  that. 

DANIEL.    (Very  simply)    You  will — some  day 

(JERRY  enters  R.  He  has  added  two  or  three  brandies 
to  a  generous  allowance  at  dinner,  and  though  not 
drunk,  is  sullen  and  quarrelsome,  the  more  so  at 
finding  DANIEL  with  CLARE.  He  faces  them,  his 
back  to  audience,  and  stares  at  them  with  comic 
insolence  a  moment  before  speaking.) 

JERRY.  Hello,  Gilchrist!  In  early,  aren't  you?  I 
didn't  mean  to  interrupt  a  tete-a-tete!  (Crosses  L.C.) 

CLARE.    You're  not  interrupting. 

JERRY.    Where's  Father? 

CLARE.    I  thought  he  was  with  you. 

JERRY.  (He  reels  slightly)  No — I  stopped  for  re 
freshments. 

CLARE.    I  see  you  did. 

(JERRY  goes  to  upper  L.  end  of  table  and  pours  himself 
a  drink.) 

JERRY.    (Laughs  and  turns  to  DANIEL,  who  has  drop- 


66  THE    FOOL 

ped  down  by  chair  R.)  We've  been  having  a  genial 
evening  with  your  delegation.  That's  why  my  wife's 
sore. 

CLARE.    I'm  not  "sore."    I've  been  a  little  lonely. 

JERRY.  (Looking  at  DANIEL)  You  don't  look  it! — 
I  couldn't  help  going  to  Black  River !  I  didn't  go  for 
pleasure — did  I,  Gilchrist? 

DANIEL.  No,  indeed.  There  was  work,  and  plenty 
of  it.  I  was  sorry  you  had  to  leave  when  you  did. 

(JERRY  begins  to  be  worried.) 

CLARE.  Why,  Jerry  didn't  leave  much  before  you, 
did  he? 

JERRY.    Just  a  few 

DANIEL.  (At  the  same  time)  Only  twenty-four 
hours. — He  wanted  to  get  back  to  you,  I  suppose. 

CLARE.  But — he's  just  got  back. — Where  have  you 
been,  Jerry? 

JERRY.   Attending  to  business — (Drinks)    of  course! 

CLARE.  (Hard)  Of  course.  (She  takes  the  scarf 
from  the  box  on  the  table)  Goodnight,  Dan. 

DANIEL.  (Cheerily)  Goodnight!  (She  starts  in 
front  of  table  toward  door  L.) 

JERRY.  (Comes  down  L.  of  table  and  faces  her  before 
she  can  cross)  Oh — you  got  the  furs! 

CLARE.     Yes — thank  you. 

JERRY.    Don't  mention  it ! 

CLARE.    I'm  very  grateful — but 

JERRY.    But  what? 

CLARE.  Never  mind,  we'll  talk  about  it  some  other 
time.  (Crosses  in  front  of  JERRY.) 

JERRY.  We'll  talk  about  it  now!  (CLARE  stops  just 
L.  of  JERRY.) 

DANIEL.  I'll  go.    (Starts  n.) 

JERRY.  No,  you  won't.  (To  DANIEL)  You  made  a 
crack  about  my  leaving  twenty-four  hours  before  you 
did!  How  do  you  know  when  I  left?  (To  CLARE) 


ACT   TWO  67 

If  that's  what  you're  sore  about,  for  Heaven's  sake, 
drop  it !  I'm  sorry  you've  been  alone,  and  I've  sent  you 
a  handsome  gift  as  an  apology! 

CLARE.  (Throwing  scarf  on  arm  of  chair  and  facing 
him)  I  don't  want  it.  I  don't  want  to  be  paid  for 
shutting  my  eyes  to  any  insulting  thing  you  choose 
to  do! 

JERRY.  And  I  don't  propose  to  be  made  a  blackguard 
before  strangers ! 

CLARE.  Dan  isn't  a  stranger !  And  I  don't  want  to 
make  you  a  blackguard.  Only — since  you've  insisted 
on  the  truth — Dan,  when  did  my  husband  leave  Black 
River? 

DANIEL.    I  haven't  seen  him  since  Thursday. 

JERRY.  (Facing  CLARE;  his  back  to  DANIEL)  There 
you  have  it — he  hasn't  seen  me  since  Thursday.  Does 
it  occur  to  you  that  may  have  been  because  he  wasn't 
in  Black  River? 

CLARE.    No. 

DANIEL.   As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  wasn't. 

JERRY.  (Surprised  and  immensely  relieved,  turns 
quickly  to  DANIEL,  and  as  quickly  takes  advantage  of 
his  generosity)  Oh! — Where  were  you? 

DANIEL.  (Coming  into  the  scene  a  little)  At  the 
mines. 

CLARE.    Is  that  the  truth? 

JERRY.  (To  CLARE)  Of  course  it's  the  truth.  And 
if  it  wasn't,  I  don't  see  that  you've  any  right  to  ask 
questions !  I  haven't  done  anything  that  wasn't  in  the 
bargain !  I  haven't  done  anything  every  man  doesn't  do ! 
(Wheels  L.  and  goes  up  stage.  This  speech  is  NOT 
read  for  a  laugh.  Melodrama  here  building  to  a  climax.) 

CLARE.    Every  man — perhaps — but  one! 

JERRY.  (Turns)  Gilchrist!  My  God!  Now  we've 
got  it !  If  you'd  only  married  him !  He's  good,  because 
he  says  so !  You  ought  to  've  been  here  a  minute  ago — 
when  the  company  detective  warned  us  not  to  mention 
Gilchrist  to  Joe  Hennig!  (Down  to  L.c.) 


68  THE   FOOL 

DANIEL.    You  mean 

JERRY.    I  mean  Pearl  Hennig! 

DANIEL.  Pearl  Hennig?  Why,  you — (He  advances 
a  step,  violently.  He  is  about  to  say  "dirty  liar,"  but 
changes  his  mind  and  says  quietly) — you  know  that's 
not  true ! 

CLARE.    (L.)    /  know  it's  not  true! 

JERRY.  Do  you?  (Voices  of  SERVANT,  HENNIG  and 
STEDTMAN  off  R.  "Hennig,  stay  out  of  here.31  "Stay 
out?  I  will  not!"  "Please  don't  go  in  there."  JERRY 
recognizes  the  voices,  and,  struck  with  an  idea,  continues 
above  them)  Ask  Stedtman!  Ask  Hennig!  And  be 
fore  you  make  up  your  mind  where  /  was  yesterday, 
ask  where  he  was 

(JoE  HENNIG  and  STEDTMAN  burst  into  the  room. 
JOE  comes  first;  STEDTMAN  clinging  to  his  arm  and 
trying  to  hold  him  back.  The  SERVANT  comes 
after,  and,  realizing  that  he  is  too  late  to  do  any 
thing,  stands  quietly  by  the  door  until  dismissed. 
JOE  throws  STEDTMAN  off  and  upstage  with  his 
"Behave — hell!"  JOE  rushes  straight  at  DANIEL 
after  this  speech.  Naturally,  everyone  in  the 
room  looks  at  him.) 

STEDTMAN.     Say — listen — you  behave  yourself  ! 

JOE.  Behave — hell!  (Crosses  to  DANIEL)  You — 
Gilchrist!  Where've  you  got  my  wife? 

DANIEL.    I  haven't  got  your  wife,  Hennig. 

JOE.   The  hell  you  haven't ! 

DANIEL.  You'd  better  go,  Clare.  (CLARE  starts  to 
exit  up  L.) 

JERRY.  I  want  her  to  stay.  (She  stops  and  looks  at 
him.  He  waits  until  he  is  quite  certain  of  her  remain 
ing — quite  a  long  pause,  and  then  turns  R.  To  the 
SERVANT)  All  right— What's  it  all  about,  Stedtman? 

(Exit  SERVANT.     Positions  are  as  follows:      CLARE 


ACT   TWO  69 

L.  :  JERRY  L.C.  :  DANIEL  R.C.  HENNIG  R.  of  DANIEL 
— STEDTMAN  R.) 

STEDTMAN.  (Downs..)  You  can  search  me !  Uman- 
ski  stuck  to  us  all  the  way  home.  When  he  left,  I 
went  in  to  have  a  little  talk  with  Joe — alone.  See? 
There  was  a  telegram,  and  he  read  it,  and 

JOE.  And  come  here  to  ask  Gilchrist:  Where's  my 
wife? 

DANIEL.    She  told  me  she  was  going  to  her  sister's. 

Jos.  She  ain't  never  been  near  her  sister,  and  you 
know  it!  (Gropes  in  pocket  while  JERRY  comes  over) 
I  just  got  this  from  her  sister.  (Holds  out  wire.  JERRY 
snatches  it)  Read  it! 

JERRY.  (Reading.  All  in  one  tone.)  Pearl  ain't  here. 
We  ain't  seen  her.  Ain't  she  home?  (After  reading, 
puts  telegram  on  table  L. ) 

DANIEL.   Maybe  she  is. 

JOE.  (He  has  never  moved  from  his  position  R.  of 
DANIEL)  You  know  she  ain't !  And  what  if  she  is — 
now  ?  I  don't  want  your  leavings ! 

DANIEL.     Why  do  you  say  that,  Hennig? 

JOE.  Why  do  I  say  it?  Ain't  I  seen  you  down 
town  with  her  ?  Ain't  I  found  you  with  her  when 
I  came  home  unexpected?  I  knew  you  was  stuck  on 
her,  and  I  warned  you  to  stay  away — didn't  I? 

DANIEL.    You  were  mistaken. 

JOE.    Didn't  I  warn  you? 

DANIEL.   Yes. 

JOE.   And  you  come  again — didn't  you? 

DANIEL.  Yes. 

JERRY.  (To  CLARE.  He  goes  up)  Every  man — but 
one! 

DANIEL.  I  went  first  on  your  account — because  they 
told  me  you  were  in  debt — and  why.  I  "came  again" 
because  she  asked  me  to.  This  disappearance  looks 
queer,  I  admit,  but  people  do  get  lost,  or  hurt,  and  taken 
to  hospitals,  and  aren't  identified. 


70  THE    FOOL 

JOE.    (Half  convinced)    You  think 

DANIEL.  I  think  your  wife's  all  right,  Joe.  I  don't 
think  you  ought  to  accuse  her  publicly  until  you're 
sure  she's  not. 

JOE.    (Cries)    How'm  I  gonna  be  sure? 

DANIEL.    Suppose  we  ask  the  police  to  look  for  her  ? 

JERRY.  (Down  L.C.  Turning  quickly,  comes  down 
L.C.)  What's  the  use  of  starting  a  hulla-ba-loo  ?  You 
don't  want  the  woman  accused  publicly,  but  you're  will 
ing  to  spread  the  news  so  this  man'll  be  ashamed  to  go 
back  home.  We  all  know  the  facts  in  the  case,  and  the 
least  said  about  it  now  the  better.  (To  JOE)  You've 
found  her  out,  Joe.  Let  her  go — and  forget  it ! 

CLARE.    (L.)    I  don't  think  he  ought  to  forget  it. 

JERRY.    No  ? 

CLARE.  (Very  positively)  No.  I  don't  think  he 
ought  to  drop  it  now — until  we  all  know  the  truth. 

DANIEL.    (Positively)    Right! 

JOE.  I  want  to  know  the  truth!  I  got  to!  I  been 
crazy  about  her !  Maybe  that's  a  good  idea — the  police. 
I  got  to  know  the  truth ! 

JERRY.  (Each  of  these  speeches  has  been  the  turn  of 
a  screw  on  him.  He  has  been  facing  CLARE,  but,  through 
the  preceding  speech  from  JOE,  has  slowly  turned  R., 
and  is  now  at  bay)  All  right !  Stedtman !  (Steps  for- 
ward  a  step)  Where  were  you  yesterday  ?  (JoE  looks 
at  STEDTMAN.) 

STEDTMAN.   At  the  mines. 

JERRY.    What  part  of  the  mines? 

STEDTMAN.    All  over. 

JERRY.    Did  you  see  Gilchrist  ? 

STEDTMAN.    No. 

(DANIEL,  who  has  been  looking  at  STEDTMAN,  slowly 
turns  his  eyes  to  CLARE  and  watches  the  effect  of 
this  on  her.  Her  eyes  are  on  him.  JOE,  mechani 
cally,  almost  as  though  hypnotised,  moves  toward 
STEDTMAN.) 


ACT    TWO  71 

(STEDTMAN  down  R.  JOE  just  L.  of  him.  DANIEL'S  leg 
is  almost  touching  the  R.  evtd  of  bench.  JERRY  is 
a  few  feet  L.  of  the  L.  end  of  bench.  CLARE  is 
downstage  L.  There  must  be  a  clear  line  of  vision 
between  CLARE  and  DANIEL  and  between  STEDT 
MAN  and  JERRY.) 

JERRY.    When  did  you  see  him  last  ? 

STEDTMAN.    Thurs — Yes,  it  was  Thursday. 

JERRY.    Wrhere  ? 

STEDTMAN.    In  Black  River. 

JERRY.    Alone  ? 

STEDTMAN.    No. 

JERRY.    With  whom? 

STEDTMAN.    \Yith  Mrs.  Hennig. 

JOE.  (Starts  for  DANIEL  but  is  held  back  by  STEDT 
MAN)  I  knew  it!  I'm  gonna  kill  you ! 

JERRY.  No,  you're  not.  (He  says  this  with  great 
authority  and  fixes  JOE  with  his  eyes  until  JOE  stops  his 
violent  struggle)  You're  going  to  keep  quiet.  (JoE 
quiets  down  completely,  and  STEDTMAN  drops  his  arm) 
But  you  wanted  the  truth,  and  you've  got  it.  I've 
known  it  all  along.  (To  CLARE)  Now  do  you  think  I 
was  lying  ? 

(STEDTMAN  pacifies  JOE  whom  he  takes  R.) 

CLARE.    I  don't  know.    I  don't  understand. 

JERRY.    Oh,  yes,  you  do — only  you  won't  admit  it! 

CLARE.  I  suppose  that's  it.  (She  takes  her  scarf 
and  starts  wearily  to  exit.) 

DANIEL.  (Down)  Clare!  (She  stops)  I  don't  care 
what  anyone  believes  but  you ! 

CLARE.  (Turns)  I'll  believe  you,  Dan,  if  you'll  only 
explain. 

DANIEL.    I 

JERRY.  (Facing  him)  I  forbid  you  to  speak  to  my 
wife! 


72  THE    FOOL 

CLARE.   Go  on,  Dan. 

JERRY.    I  forbid  you  to  speak  to  my  wife! 
DANIEL.     (Exploding — to  JERRY)     If  I  hadn't  any 
body  to  think  about  but  you!  1 1 

(They  stare  at  each  other — close  together.  Suddenly 
JERRY  lifts  his  open  hand,  and  strikes  DAN  across 
the  left  cheek.  DANIEL  instinctively  clinches  his 
fist  and  brings  it  into  position  to  strike.  JERRY 
takes  the  position  of  a  boxer  to  defend  himself. 
There  is  a  tense  moment.  CLARE  is  watching  them. 
As  he  lifts  his  fist,  DANIEL  sees  CLARE,  and  con 
trols  himself.  Slowly  his  hand  opens  and  drops  to 
his  side.  As  it  begins  to  drop,  CLARE  speaks.) 

CLARE.  (In  almost  speechless  amazement)  Dan, 
you're  not  going  to  take  that? 

DANIEL.     I  have  nothing  to  say. 

(JERRY  turns  to  CLARE  with  a  gesture  that  says  "There 
you  are!"  and  goes  up.) 

CLARE.  I  didn't  think  you  were  a  coward.  (In  a  dead 
tone)  You  see,  I  was  wrong  about  everything.  (The 
scarf  in  her  hand,  she  exits  L.  A  short  pause.  Suddenly, 
JOE  emboldened  by  what  he  has  witnessed,  certain  of 
DAN'S  cowardice,  breaks  from  STEDTMAN  and  rushes 
at  GILCHRIST.) 

JOE.  You'll  play  around  my  wife,  will  you  ?  (DANIEL 
merely  looks  at  him)  You  will — will  you  ? — (He  strikes 
out.  DANIEL  seizes  his  wrist  and  with  one  powerful, 
dexterous  movement,  hurls  him  to  the  floor)  Aah ! 

STEDTMAN.    Gee ! 

DANIEL.  (As  HENNIG  struggles  to  his  feet)  I  hope 
I  didn't  hurt  you,  Joe. 

JOE.  (Close  to  DANIEL,  looking  up  into  his  face  with 
intense  hatred  and  defiance.  This  must  be  played  with 
-great  sincerity  not  to  get  a  laugh.  JOE  clasps  his  right 


ACT   TWO  73 

wrist  with  his  left  hand.  The  right  hand  dangles  use 
less)  Don't  worry!  I'll  get  you!  (He  walks  slowly 
to  the  door  R.  still  holding  his  wrist,  and  very  sullen. 
At  the  door  he  turns.  Quietly  but  with  real  menace) 
It  may  be  a  long  time,  but  I'll  get  you!  (Exit.) 

DANIEL.  (With  great  kindness)  Take  him  home, 
STEDTMAN.  (Jerks  his  head  toward  door.) 

STEDTMAN.  Goodnight,  Mr.  Jerry.  Tell  your  father 
we'll  be  around 

DANIEL.    Take  him  home,  Stedtman ! ! 

STEDTMAN.  (Speaking  through  DANIEL'S  speech  and 
backing  quickly  to  the  door) — in — the  morning! 

(Quick  exit.  He  closes  the  door,  which  has  been  left 
open  by  HEN  NIG.  The  two  men  look  at  each  other, 
JERRY  goes  to  upper  left  of  table,  and  pours  him 
self  a  drink.) 

JERRY.  Well,  you've  made  a  nice  mess  of  it !  Why 
can't  you  keep  your  nose  out  of  other  people's  busi 
ness?  Why  did  you  have  to  date  my  leaving  Black 
River? 

DANIEL.  (Down  R.C.)  Why  did  you  have  to  get 
mixed  up  with  Pearl  Hennig? 

JERRY.    /  can  take  what  I  want  out  of  life! 

DANIEL.  (Closes  in  to  table — down  stage  R.)  You 
can — (Nods)  God  says:  "Here  is  the  world.  Take 
what  you  want— AND  PAY  FOR  IT!" 

JERRY.  Rubbish.  (Drinks)  Save  your  preaching 
for  those  that  like  it!  (Comes  down  L.  of  table)  And 
keep  away  from  my  wife ! 

DANIEL.   Why  ? 

JERRY.  Because  you're  in  love  with  her !  And  you've 
a  hell  of  a  nerve  to  preach  to  me  about  Hennig's  wife 
while  you're  making  a  play  for  mine. 

DANIEL.    I'm  not  making  a  play  for  yours. 

JERRY.    No?    You  expect  me  to  believe — Then  why 


74  THE    FOOL 

did  you  pull  that  hero  stuff?  Why  did  you  turn  the 
other  cheek? 

DANIEL.  (Quietly  and  very  kindly)  You  wouldn't 
understand,  Jerry. 

JERRY.  Wouldn't  I  ?  Well,  you  understand  that  I've 
forbidden  you  to  speak  to  her  and  that  goes. 

(GooDKiND  enters  L.  and  stands  in  door.) 

If  you  come  here  again,  I'll  have  the  servants  throw  you 
out,  and  I'll  tell  my  father  why. 

DANIEL.    Here's  your  father  now. 

JERRY.  (He  does  not  even  turn  to  look  at  his  father) 
And  that's  not  all  I'll  do!  (He  says  this  in  a  lower 
voice,  and  then  crosses  DANIEL  to  the  door  R.,  where  he 
turns  and  says  ery  quietly  and  very  pleasantly)  Not 
by  a  damn  sight !  (Exit  R.  ) 

GOODKIND.    Hello,  Dan!     (He  crosses  above  table.) 

DANIEL.    Good  evening,  Mr.  Goodkind. 

GOODKIND.  (Offering  humidor  across  upper  R.  end 
of  table  to  DANIEL,  who  takes  a  cigar.  Humorously) 
Jerry  doesn't  like  you  much,  does  he  ? 

DANIEL.  (Cigar  in  his  other  hand;  rubs  spot  where 
JERRY  struck  him.  Humorously)  Not  much. 

GOODKIND.  Well,  never  mind!  How  are  things  in 
Black  River? 

DANIEL.  (Steps  down  R.  front  of  chair  R.)  I  think 
we've  got  everything  settled. 

GOODKIND.  (Above  table)  Fine !  Benfield'll  be  up 
in  a  minute,  and  we  can  talk  over  the  conditions! 
Somehow,  I  knew  you'd  do  it !  Jerry  says  you're  a 
philanthropist  but  I  knew  he  was  wrong! 

DANIEL.    (Lights  cigar  at  chair  R.)    Thanks. 

GOODKIND.  If  you've  really  settled  this  strike — our 
way — your  salary  from  today  is  thirty  thousand  a  year ! 

DANIEL.    Thanks — again. 


ACT    TWO  75 

GOODKIND.  I'm  dog-sick  of  rowing  with  labor !  It's 
such  utter  damned  waste! — Excuse  me! 

DANIEL.    I  agree  with  you ! 

GOODKIND.  (Crosses  back  of  table  to  L.)  I'd  hate  to 
figure  what  "walk-outs"  have  cost  this  country! 

DANIEL.  Yes.  I  often  wonder  why  it  wouldn't  be 
cheaper  to  keep  the  men  contented. 

GOODKIND.  (Goes  around  chair  L.)  How're  you 
going  to  do  it  ?  Don't  forget  there  are  as  many  people 
paid  for  stirring  up  strikes  as  for  crushing  'em !  Paid 
well,  too !  What  the  laboring  man  needs  is  a  real  inter 
est  in  his  job ! 

DANIEL.  (Sits  L.  end  of  bench)  Why  don't  you 
give  it  to  him? 

GOODKIND.  (Sits  chair  L.)  How?  By  doubling  his 
wages?  The  more  most  of  'em  get  the  less  they  want 
to  do  for  it !  You  know  that ! 

DANIEL.    Yes. 

GOODKIND.  They've  got  a  notion  that  you  get  rich  by 
riding  around  in  a  limousine ! 

DANIEL.    Don't  you? 

GOODKIND.  No,  you  don't.  Indeed,  you  don't.  Not 
unless  you  think  while  you  ride  or  your  father  thought 
for  you !  Even  then,  money  doesn't  stay  long  in  bad 
company!  To  hear  those  fellows  you'd  think  there 
wasn't  any  work,  except  what's  done  with  a  pick !  The 
man  that  really  produces  is  the  man  with  the  idea ! 

DANIEL.    The  man  that  produces  most. 

GOODKIND.    Yes,  and  he  ought  to  get  most ! 

DANIEL.    Well,  he  does ! 

GOODKIND.  He  always  will!  Show  me  a  big  man 
and  I'll  show  you  somebody  who's  done  a  big  job !  It's 
the  little  man  with  no  capacity  and  no  chin  that  cries 
about  a  conspiracy  to  keep  him  from  being  President ! 

DANIEL.  There've  got  to  be  little  men,  too,  Mr. 
Goodkind. 

GOODKIND.  And  they've  got  to  be  satisfied  with  little 
rewards !  We  can't  all  have  the  same  bank-roll  any 


76  THE    FOOL 

more  than  we  can  all  have  the  same  health!  That's 
where  unions  go  wrong !  When  you  tell  a  man  he's  go 
ing  to  have  the  same  reward,  whatever  he  does — not 
because  he's  got  ability,  but  because  he's  got  a  union 
card — down  goes  the  standard,  out  goes  incentive,  and 
— and — and  to  hell  goes  the  whole  social  structure ! 

DANIEL.    Right ! 

GOODKIND.  That's  why  I'm  righting  the  unions! 
Not  because  I  want  to  starve  the  man  who  works,  but 
because  I  want  to  fire  the  man  who  doesn't — and  re 
ward  the  man  who  does !  I  want  to  give  every  man  a 
good  reason  for  doing  his  best!  And  you  can  (Rises 
and  crosses  R.)  talk  equality  and  democracy  all  you 
like,  Dan,  but  the  minute  the  average  man  isn't  afraid 
of  being  fired  he  isn't  afraid  of  being  worthless  I — The 
minute  you  take  away  incentive — the  chance  to  get  this 
—  (Up,  around  to  R.  end  of  table  on  next  line.  DANIEL 
turns)  that  minute  you  reduce  the  world  to  a  common 
level  of  common  indifference  and  common  futility! 
(Finishes  at  a  climax.) 

(Enter  BENFIELD,  L.) 

DANIEL.    Right ! 

GOODKIND.  Yes — Have  another  cigar!  (DANIEL 
shows  the  one  he  has  just  lighted,  and  shakes  his  head) 
Where  the  deuce  is — (He  sees  BENFIELD  standing  in 
the  door  L.)  Come  in,  Benfield!  Gilchrist  has  settled 
the  strike ! 

BENFIELD.    Good  I 

DANIEL.  (Rises.  Giving  a  folded  document  to 
GOODKIND,  who  comes  down  R.C.)  Now  here  are  the 
terms.  They  may  seem  a  little  radical,  but  I  think  I 
can  show  you  they'll  save  money  in  the  end!  ( GOOD- 
KIND  crosses  L.  in  front  of  DAN  to  chair  L.) 

GOODKIND.  That's  the  idea!  (With  the  papers  in  his 
hands,  being  opened,  he  feels  confident  and  cocky.  To 
BENFIELD,  who,  at  L.  of  table,  pours  out  drink)  I  told 


ACT   TWO  77 

you  I  knew  my  man!  The  Lord  knows  he's  full  of 
theories,  but  sometimes  they — (He  starts  to  sit  L.  His 
eyes  falls  upon  a  disturbing  line,  and,  with  his  knees 
already  bent,  he  straightens  up  and  remains  standing) 
Wait  a  minute!  What's  this? 

(The  humor  of  this  depends  upon  the  extent  to  'which 
GOODKIND  gloats  as  he  crosses  the  stage.  The 
audience  should  be  aware,  all  the  way,  of  the  jolt 
that  is  coming  to  him  in  a  moment.) 

BENFIELD.    What's  what? 

GOODKIND.  (Reading)  "Hereby  agreed — the  men 
are  to  be  represented — on  the  board  of  directors " 

BENFIELD.     (L.  to  GOODKIND.    Stunned)     No!! 

GOODKIND.  Yes!  And — look  here!!  (Reading. 
BENFIELD  down)  "All  disputes — referred — to  a  com 
mittee  of  arbitration " 

BENFIELD.    The  man's  gone  crazy ! 

DANIEL.  (R.C.  in  front  of  table,  almost  R.  end  of 
bench)  When  you're  through 

GOODKIND.  (Reading)  "One  half  of  all  profits,  over 
and  above  a  fair  dividend,  to  be  divided  pro  rata,  ac 
cording  to  wage  and  length  of  service."  Why — (Words 
fail)  What  is  this? 

BENFIELD.  (Up  L.c.)  Jerry  told  you;  it's  sur 
render  ! ! 

DANIEL.   No!   No!   It's  justice! 

GOODKIND.  It's  nothing!  It's  a  scrap  of  paper  un 
til  I  sign  it,  and  I  wouldn't  sign  it  if  I  had  to  shut  up 
every  mine  in  West  Virginia !  (Throws  paper  on  table, 
and  faces  DANIEL)  Why  should  I?  We've  got  'em 
licked! 

DANIEL.    If  you'll  only  let  me  explain. 

GOODKIND.  (Down  L.,  turns)  Explain  what? 
They're  licked!  They  sent  a  delegation  up  here,  and 
we've  won  over  the  delegation! 

DANIEL.    You  mean  you've  bought  /he  delegation! 


78  THE    FOOL 

GOODKIND.   Who  said  so? 
DANIEL.    Jerry. 

(GOODKIND  and  BENFIELD  exchange  glances  of  appre 
hension.) 

GOODKIND.  Jerry? 

DANIEL.  Not  ten  minutes  ago  he  referred  to  Stedt- 
man  as  the  company  detective.  Hennig's  for  sale !  Buy 
him,  and  I'll  go  back  and  tell  them  he's  bought,  and 
prove  it ! 

BENFIELD.  (Down  to  DANIEL)  You're  working  for 
us! 

DANIEL.    I'm  working  for 

GOODKIND.  (Stops  him  and  crosses  to  DANIEL) 
Wait  a  minute,  Benfield!  We've  all  lost  our  heads! 
Daniel  and  I  have  just  been  over  all  this,  and  he  ad 
mitted  I  was  right! 

DANIEL.  Right  as  far  as  you  went,  but  you  only 
went  part  way !  You  have  a  right  to  a  profit  on  your 
idea,  and  your  investment  and  the  labor  you  put  back 
of  it!  The  public  has  a  right  to  coal,  and  transporta 
tion,  and  all  it  needs  and  pays  for !  But,  above  every 
thing  else,  the  workman  who  works  honestly,  has  a 
right  to  something  more  than  the  barest  kind  of  a  bare 
living — (BENFIELD  up  stage,  with  a  grunt  goes  L.  and 
up  stage)  and  it  can  all  be  done  if  you  don't  sink 
everybody's  rights  to  accumulate  a  fortune  you  don't 
need  and  can't  use. — All  the  argument  on  earth  can't 
make  you  all  right  so  long  as  there's  a  single  Umanski 
in  the  world! 

(From  here  the  scene  should  be  fast,  big  melodrama. 
No  pauses.    Build  to  climax.) 


GOODKIND.     But  if  these  people  succeed  there's  no 
limit  to  what  they'll  do ! 


ACT   TWO  79 

DANIEL.  If  they  fail  there's  no  limit  to  what  you'll 
do! 

GOODKIND.  (Down  L.)  There's  no  good  transfer 
ring  control  from  the  intelligent  few  to  the  ignorant 
mob! 

DANIEL.  (Up  to  R.  end  of  table)  There's  no  good 
in  anything  so  long  as  we  fight  each  other  like  beasts, 
(Objecting  to  the  word,  GOODKIND  turns  and  takes  a 
quick  step  forward,  which  brings  him  to  just  below  and 
R.  of  armchair  L.)  instead  of  helping  each  other  like 
brothers !  There's  no  hope  anywhere  except  in  the 
Great  Teacher,  and  the  understanding  that  what  He 
taught  was  not  only  good  morals,  but  good  sense  and 
good  business! 

BENFIELD.    Highfalutin  nonsense !     (Up  L.) 

GOODKIND.  (Crosses  L.)  Daniel  doesn't  realize  what 
he's  costing  us ! 

DANIEL.    What? 

GOODKIND.    Millions ! 

DANIEL.    Oh,  is  that  all? 

BENFIELD.   All  ? 

DANIEL.  (Upper  R.  end  of  table)  Am  I  costing  you 
one  cigar?  Am  I  costing  you  one  blanket  from  your 
warm  beds,  or  one  stick  of  furniture  from  your  com 
fortable  homes,  or  anything  else,  you'll  ever  miss? 
I'm  taking  nothing  from  you,  and  I'm  giving  thousands 
of  men  like  you  a  chance  to  live ! 

GOODKIND.  (Up  to  L.  end  of  table — downstage  end) 
You're  costing  yourself  your  last  chance  of  success! 

DANIEL.  I  don't  want  your  kind  of  success!  I'm 
through !  I  give  you  back  your  job,  as  I  gave  you  back 
your  church,  and  I  give  you  twenty-four  hours  to  sign 
that  paper. 

GOODKIND.  (Indicating  contract  on  table)  If  I  do, 
you're  finished! 

DANIEL.    I  am  when  you've  signed.     (He  goes  R.) 

GOODKIND.  If  you  walk  out  of  that  door  you're 
throwing  away  the  chance  of  your  life, 


80  THE    FOOL 

DANIEL.  I'm  keeping  my  soul !   (He  opens  the  door.) 
BENFIELD.     You  Judas!      (Comes  down,  violently 
throwing  down  cigar.) 

DANIEL.    Good-night.     (Exit.) 

(Ring  down  curtain  on  this  cue.    GOODKIND  c.  speaks 
the  next  line  as  the  curtain  is  falling.) 

GOODKIND.    Damned  fool! 


CURTAIN 


CURTAIN  CALLS: 

1.  DANIEL,  GOODKIND  and  BENFIELD. 

2.  CLARE,  DANIEL,  GOODKIND  and  JERRY. 

3.  The  same,  with  STEDTMAN  and  HENNIG. 

4.  DANIEL  and  UMANSKI. 

5.  DANIEL  and  CLARE. 

6.  DANIEL. 


ACT  THREE 


SCENE  :    "Overcoat  Hall"    New  York. 

This  room — not  too  large — was  the  "front 
parlor"  of  a  comfortable  residence  in  down-town 
New  York.  Business,  of  the  least  attractive  sort, 
and  the  slums  long  since  have  occupied  the  dis 
trict.  The  building  is  a  red-brick,  low-stoop,  Eng 
lish  basement  house.  The  rear  wall,  which  is  the 
front  of  the  dwelling,  is  pierced  by  two  lofty 
windows,  through  which  is  seen  the  top  of  an  iron 
railing,  and  a  row  of  similar  structures,  fallen  into 
decay,  across  the  street.  Between  these  windows, 
upon  a  low  marble  shelf  now  holding  a  sugar-bowl 
and  silver-plated  knives  and  forks,  originally  was 
a  tall,  gold-framed  mirror.  The  mirror  was  broken, 
long  ago,  and,  in  its  frame,  has  been  set  a  black 
board  upon  which  has  been  chalked:  "And  so,  to 
the  end  of  history,  hate  shall  breed  hate,  murder 
shall  breed  'murder,  until  the  gods  create  a  race 
''that  can  understand."  Beneath  the  right  window 
is  a  radiator.  Downstage  R.  are  double  doors,  the 
upstage  one,  open.  Both  doors  open  on  stage. 
They  lead  to  the  main  hall,  and  so  to  the  basement 
or  upstairs,  or  to  the  front  door,  which  slams 
solidly  whenever  it  is  closed.  Belozv  these  doors 
hangs  a  folding  hat-rack  with  umbrella  clinging  to 
one  of  the  pegs.  Left  is  a  decrepit,  white-marble 
mantel,  with  a  fireplace.  In  front  of  this — in  a 
jog,  a  small  platform,  of  the  kind  used  in  public 
schools.  Upon  this,  a  small  table  and  a  chair.  On 

82 


ACT    THREE  83 

wall  down  L.  another  blackboard,  upon  which  is  the 
axiom :  "Luck  is  work."  On  corner  of  jog  hangs 
large  calendar  with  i( Wednesday"  in  big  capitals. 
In  the  centre  of  the  room  is  a  kitchen  table,  with 
a  brown  cover,  and  with  four  kitchen  chairs  about 
it.  In  front  of  chairs  and  table  is  a  bench.  On  the 
table  a  reading  lamp,  and  numerous  books  and 
magazines.  GILCHRIST  has  succeeded  in  making 
the  old  place  comfortable  and  inviting.  It  is  a 
combination  of  club,  settlement  house,  school,  read 
ing  room  and  lecture  hall.  Brown  cloth  covers 
the  floor,  and  there  are  green  shades  over 
the  windows.  An  history  chart  hangs  on  the  wall. 
There  are  book-shelves,  and  two  or  three  big,  com 
fortable  chairs;  a  phonograph  and,  perhaps,  even  a 
motion  picture  machine.  An  armchair  L.C.;  an 
other  in  front  of  fire.  Bookcase  up  L.  On  top  of 
bookcase  a  geographical  globe,  some  books,  jar  of 
tobacco,  ash  receiver,  matches,  and  pipes.  Two 
brackets  over  mantel  are  alight.  Chandelier  c. 
from  which  descends  a  cord,  lighted. 

The  cord  is  attached  to  a  battered  table  reading 
lamp,  with  a  tin  shade,  and  this  lamp  also  is  lighted. 
A  red  spot  in  the  fireplace,  focussed  so  that  it  will 
fall  about  underneath  table  when  the  table  is  over 
turned  at  the  end  of  the  act.  Mark  a  spot  in  the 
middle  of  this  light  on  the  ground  cloth.  That  spot 
should  be  just  R.C.,  and  it  is  where  GILCHRIST'S 
head  is  to  rest  when  he  is  knocked  down  at  the  end 
of  the  act.  Caution  everyone  not  to  stand  in  the 
path  of  this  light,  as  it  is  important  that  the  spot 
should  show  this  group  at  the  end  of  the  act. 

TIME  :   It  is  just  after  seven  o'clock  on  a  brisk  evening 
in  late  October,  1920.' 

AT  RISE:     GRUBBY,  seated  down  stage  of  the  centre 
table,  is  concealed  behind  a  copy  of  The  Woman's 


84  THE    FOOL 

Home  Companion,  which  he  has  opened  wide,  and 
holds  in  -front  of  him. 

MACK,  a  shabby  ne'er-do-well,  between  thirty 
and  forty  years  old,  opens  the  doors  R.  and  peers 
in  uncertainly.  Reassured  by  the  character  of  the 
room,  he  enters,  and  looks  about  him  curiously. 
Even  from  the  rear,  it  is  evident  that  GRUBBY  is  a 
person  of  no  authority  so  MACK  dismisses  him, 
temporarily,  and  warms  his  hands  over  the  radiator. 
Next  he  inspects  the  quotation  between  the  win 
dows,  pauses  at  the  phonograph,  and  arrives  in 
front  of  the  platform  L.  The  three  words  on  this 
blackboard  interest  him.  He  reads  them,  turns 
away,  turns  back  and  reads  them  again.  At  last, 
he  sniffs  contemptuously,  and  completing  his  cir 
cuit,  stops  on  the  left  of  GRUBBY. 

MACK.  Hello — you!  (GRUBBY  lowers  his  paper, 
and  reveals  a  sixty-year-old  face,  round,  very  red  and 
framed  in  a  scrag gly  gray  beard)  Is  this  Overcoat 
Hall? 

GRUBBY.     Yes.     (Resumes  reading.) 

MACK.  I'm  looking  for — (Has  trouble  remembering 
the  name)  Mr.  Gilchrist. 

GRUBBY.  (Over  top  of  magazine)  He  ain't  in,  but 
he  will  be. 

MACK.   Are  you  working  here  ? 

GRUBBY.  (Surprised.  Puts  down  magazine)  Work 
—  ?  No! 

MACK.    Is  anybody  working  here? 

GRUBBY.    Mary  Margaret. 

MACK.  Who's  she? 

GRUBBY.     A  girl. 

MACK.    What  girl? 

GRUBBY.  The  girl  that  cleans.  A  lame  girl.  Her 
mother's  the  janitor.  Have  a  seat.  Somebody'll  be 
along  in  a  minute.  (As  he  resumes  his  magazine,  never 


ACT   THREE  85 

completely  abandoned,  MACK  thrown  upon  his  own  re 
sources,  picks  up  one  periodical  after  another,  but  for 
tune  does  not  smile.  They  prove  to  be  Atlantic 
Monthly — The  Review  of  Reviews — The  Scientific 
American.) 

MACK.  (Has  come  to  R.  above  table)  What  are  you 
reading  ? 

GRUBBY.     A  piece  about  "Better  Babies." 

MACK.  (Laughs.  Down  R.)  Are  you  going  into 
the  baby  business? 

GRUBBY.  No.   I  was  a  hansom  driver. 

MACK.  Handsome!  (The  laugh  becomes  uproari 
ous.) 

GRUBBY.  Ah — hacks !  I  drove  hacks — man  and  boy 
--forty  years.  Then  taxis  come  in,  and  I  went  out ! 

MACK.    What'd  you  do  then? 

GRUBBY.    Took  to  drink. 

MACK.    Yeh,  and  then  drink  when  out. 

GRUBBY.    What's  your  job? 

MACK.  (Throws  cap  on  table.  Sits  on  chair  R.  of 
table  on  line  with  GRUBBY;  puts  feet  on  bench)  Well, 
I  was  in  the  movies.  That  is,  I  was  going  to  be,  but 
the  fellow  that  was  going  to  put  up  the  money,  his 
mother  didn't  die,  after  all. — Before  that,  I  sold  bricks 
— a  few  weeks.  I  sold  books,  too,  and  Life  Insurance. 
I  never  had  any  luck.  (Remembers  the  blackboard,  and 
glances  at  it  contemptuously)  Say,  who  wrote  that, 
"Luck  is  Work?" 

GRUBBY.    Mr.  Gilchrist. 

MACK.  Well,  it  isn't!  I've  worked  at  fifty  things, 
and  look  at  me !  I  figure  the  world  owes  me  a  living, 
and  here  I  am,  waiting  for  a  bite  of  grub  and  an  over 
coat.  (Feet  off  bench)  Say,  is  it  true  the  boss'll  give 
you  an  overcoat? 

GRUBBY.    He  will  if  he's  got  one. 

MACK.  That's  what  a  fellow  told  me.  He  said  that's 
why  they  call  this  Overcoat  Hall. 

GRUBBY.   Yes. 


86  THE    FOOL 

MACK.  (Leans  forward)  I  suppose  a  hard-luck 
story's  the  proper  spiel. 

GRUBBY.  You  don't  get  no  chance  for  a  spiel.  He 
don't  ask  you  nothing.  You  just  come,  and  help  your 
self,  and  talk  things  over — if  you  want  to.  Coffee  and 
sandwiches  every  night — and  suppers  and  sermons  on 
Wednesdays. 

(On  "coffee  and  sandwiches  every  night,  and  suppers," 
MACK  looks  front  with  an  ever-growing  smile.  On 
the  word  (< sermons"  his  face  falls  comically.) 

MACK.  (Rising)  Preaching!  (Looks  at  the  wall 
pad,  and  reaches  for  his  hat)  Wednesday.  I'll  be  back 
Thursday.  (Starts*..) 

GRUBBY.  No — no — no — not  regular  preaching !  Just 
talks! 

MACK.    Oh! 

GRUBBY.  Sometimes  they's  a  picture  show,  but  the 
pictures  is  rotten!  No  shooting,  or  nothing!  Still  you 
can  always  sneak  a  little  snooze  'til  it  comes  to  the 
hand-out. 

(MACK  crosses  L.  below  GRUBBY  to  fireplace.  MARY 
MARGARET  enters  through  the  open  door  R.  Her 
two  crutches  are  rubber-tipped,  so  her  invasion  is 
noiseless.  She  occupies  herself  with  sugar  bowl 
on  small  table  L.  of  blackboard  up  c.  which  she 
puts  on  table  later.  MARY  MARGARET  is  fifteen, 
and  pathetically  pretty.  The  conspicuous  feature 
of  her  costume  is  a  pair  of  soiled  gold  slippers 
that  once  set  off  a  ball  gown.) 

MACK.  (Looking  at  blackboard  L.  Comes  back  on 
line  with  GRUBBY  and  L.  of  him)  Don't  he  try  to  re 
form  you? 

GRUBBY.  Naw!  The  way  he  talks,  you'd  think  you 
was  as  good  as  him.  He  says  to  me,  the  other  night,  he 


ACT    THREE  87 

says,  "You're  a  good  man,  yet,  Grubby,"  he  says, 
''You're  strong  and  healthy,"  he  says,  "and,  if  you 
learned  to  drive  a  taxi,  all  the  best  people  in  New  York 
would  be  a  telephoning  for  your  cab.  I'll  lend  you  the 
money,"  he  says.  (With  comic  fright  at  his  narrozv  es 
cape)  Gee;  he  almost  had  me  started! 

MACK.    What's  the  catch? 

GRUBBY.    I  don't  know. 

MACK.    There  must  be  graft  in  it  somewhere. 

GRUBBY.  If  you  ask  me,  I  think  the  poor  gent's  got 
a  few  nuts  in  his  nose-bag.  A  little  bit  batty.  That's 
what  /  say! 

MARY  MARGARET.  (Comes  down  to  R.  upper  end  of 
table,  bringing  sugar  bowl,  and  knives  and  forks.  Dur 
ing  this  conversation,  she  puts  the  sugar  bowl  L.  of 
table.  Arranges  magazines  and  arranges  desk  lamp  so 
that  the  cord  will  not  conceal  her  face  when  she  sits 
back  of  the  table  later  with  GILCHRIST)  And  that's 
what  you  got  no  right  to  say,  Grubby. 

GRUBBY.     (To  MACK)     Mary  Margaret. 

MARY  MARGARET.    He's  been  good  to  you,  ain't  he? 

GRUBBY.  That's  why  we  think  he's  batty.  What's 
he  do  it  for? 

MARY  MARGARET.  'Cause  he  loves  you.  (Above 
table.) 

GRUBBY.    What  for? 

MARY  MARGARET.  God  Knows!  (This  is  broad 
comedy.  To  humor  the  laugh,  MACK  laughs  uproari 
ously  and  strikes  GRUBBY  on  the  shoulder.  GRUBBY 
reaches  for  him  viciously  with  his  foot.  MACK  runs 
away.)  After  seven  o'clock  now,  and  the  meeting  in 
half  an  hour,  and  he  ain't  had  a  bite  since  morning ! 

MACK.    (L.  of  table)    Where  is  he? 

MARY  MARGARET.  He  went  to  see  a  man  that  killed 
himself.  (MACK  laughs)  I  mean — tried  to.  It  was  in 
the  papers  this  afternoon,  and  Mr.  Gilchrist  says:  "I 
want  to  talk  to  that  man."  (MACK'S  interposition  has 
brought  his  words  to  her  mind,  and  reflecting  on  them, 


88  THE    FOOL 

she  explodes)  Graft!  Why  he  didn't  have  the  rent 
money  yesterday,  and  he  was  desprit !  He  ain't  had 
money  to  get  himself  a  pair  of  shoes,  and  nobody  helps 
him,  or  comes  near  him,  'cept  you  bums  that  roast  him 
behind  his  back ! 

(GOODKIND  appears  in  the  doorway  R.) 

GRUBBY.   I  didn't  roast  him.   I  just  said  he  was  crazy. 

GOODKIND.     (Crisply)     Mr.  Gilchrist? 

MARY  MARGARET.  He'll  be  here  any  minute.  Won't 
you  come  in  ? 

GOODKIND.  Thanks.  (He  comes  forward  a  few 
steps,  down  R.  and  looks  at  GRUBBY,  who  after  an  in 
stant,  takes  refuge  behind  his  Home  Journal.  GOOD- 
KIND  turns  upstage  to  R.  of  and  on  a  line  with  MARY 
MARGARET.) 

MARY  MARGARET.  (Offering  a  periodical  to  GOOD- 
KIND)  Take  a  magazine,  and  sit  down,  (With  a  nod, 
he  accepts,  and  crosses  above  her,  inspecting  black 
board,  etc.  on  his  way  L.)  I  got  to  make  the  coffee. 
(To  GRUBBY)  You  can  come  and  carry  it  up  in  about 
fifteen  minutes,  Grubby.  (She  turns  and  catches  MACK 
filching  a  handful  of  sugar)  Graft ! — Well,  you  ought 
to  know !  (She  exits  R.  singing  "I'm  a  Pilgrim/'  By 
now  GOODKIND  is  reading  in  a  big  chair  L.  MACK  steps 
down  and  talks  over  L.  corner  of  table  to  GRUBBY.) 

MACK.    Think  she'll  tell  him? 

GRUBBY.  Naw!  Anyway,  he  don't  care!  He  says 
we're  all  brothers  in  God ! 

MACK.    Gee ! 

GRUBBY.  That's  what  he  told  Jimmie  Curran — 
brothers  in  God — and  Jimmie  just  up  for  pinchin'  a 
guy's  pants.  Jimmie  lives  across  from  his  room  up 
stairs,  and  Jimmie  says  he's  clean  loco.  Guess  what 
he's  got  in  the  back  yard  ? 

MACK.   What? 

GRUBBY.    Tennis.    And  handball  games  for  children. 


ACT    THREE  89 

And,  in  the  other  two  houses,  he's  got  flats — with  bath 
tubs —  (GRUBBY  faces  front,  repeats  the  word  "bath 
tubs!"  with  horror,  shivering  and  gathering  his  coat 
about  him.  Then  continues)  and  the  rents  ain't  what 
they  ask  now  for  stalling  a  horse.  Why  shouldn't  I 
say  he  was  crazy?  Everybody  says  so  but  Mary 
Margaret. 

(DANIEL  enters  R.  He  is  shabby,  but  beaming.  He  re 
moves  his  overcoat  and  hangs  it  over  an  old  um 
brella  already  suspended  from  a  wall-rack  down 
stage  of  the  door.) 

DANIEL.  Hello,  Grubby!  (GRUBBY  rises  and  steps 
down  to  screen  GOODKIND  from  DAN.  MACK  down  also 
between  GOODKIND  and  DAN)  You're  early!  And 
you've  brought  a  friend!  That's  fine!  (He  shakes 
hands  with  MACK)  You're  very  welcome !  (GOODKIND 
rises.  GRUBBY  and  MACK  get  out  of  the  way,  so  DANIEL 
can  see  GOODKIND.  GRUBBY  goes  up  about  c.  of  table. 
MACK  on  his  left.  DANIEL  goes  to  GOODKIND  L.)  And 
Mr.  Goodkind !  Well !  You're  welcome,  too !  (Shakes 
hands)  Have  you  come  down  to  look  us  over? 

GOODKIND.  (His  eyes  indicating  the  others)  I've 
come  down  on  personal  business.  (GOODKIND  takes 
step  L.,  giving  DAN  chance  to  dismiss  others.) 

DANIEL.  Oh,  yes !  (Just  turns  head  upstage  from  c. 
of  table  and  below  it)  Grubby,  there's  a  box  of  books 
in  the  hall.  How  would  you  and  your  friend  like  to 

GRUBBY.  I  promised  to  help  with  the  coffee. 
(Scampers  off  R.) 

DANIEL.  I  see.  (To  MACK:  who  has  been  stealing 
surreptitious  glances  at  the  overcoat)  And  you? 

MACK.  (Down  L.  of  DANIEL)  I  just  wanted  to 
speak  to  you  a  minute. 

DANIEL.    All  right.    After  the  meeting. 

MACK.    I  wanted  to  ask  you 

DANIEL.       (Puts   him  R.C.)      After   the   meeting! 


90  THE    FOOL 

(Crosses  with  MACK  a  little  R.  of  chair  and  sits  in  chair 
R.  of  table.     This  chair  has  been  placed  by  MACK  in 
earlier  scene  with  GRUBBY.    To  GOODKIND)    Sit  down! 
GOODKIND.     (Sitting  on  bench)     Thanks! 

(MACK — resentful,  unobserved,  uncertain  of  getting 
the  coat  honestly — is  sorely  tempted.  One  pull, 
one  step,  and  he  is  safe  from  work  and  denial. 
During  the  following,  standing  almost  in  the  door 
way,  he  reaches  for  the  coat.) 

DANIEL.  (Sits  in  chair  R.C.  To  GOODKIND)  I'm 
glad  you  dropped  in  tonight,  because  I've  been  intending 
to  call  on  you,  but  there's  so  much  to  do  here — (The 
coat  comes  off  the  rack,  and  with  it  the  umbrella,  which 
falls  with  a  crash.  DANIEL  rises,  discovering  MACK, 
coat  held  behind  him,  in  doorway)  Hello!  I  thought 
you'd  gone. 

MACK.    No;  I — I — wanted 

DANIEL.    You  wanted  my  coat. 

MACK.  (Advancing  with  a  glad  smile  of  pretended 
relief  that  DANIEL  has  found  the  simple  explanation) 
Yes — that's  what  I  wanted  to  ask  you. 

DANIEL.  (R.  of  chair  R.C.)  I'm  so  glad  you  said  so. 
(MACK  shows  surprise)  Because  if  you  hadn't,  and  I 
hadn't  understood,  you  might  have  been  tempted  to 
take  it  without  asking — (MACK  shakes  his  head  violent 
ly)  and  then  you'd  been  so  sorry  and  ashamed.  (MACK 
nods  his  head)  A  man  couldn't  come  into  another  man's 
house,  and  be  welcomed,  and  then  take  the  other  man's 
coat,  without  losing  his  self-respect — could  he  ?  (MACK 
shakes  his  head,  always  agreeing  with  DANIEL)  And, 
of  course,  if  we're  going  to  pull  ourselves  together,  and 
get  out  of  a  hole,  we  must  keep  our  self-respect. 

MACK.  (Hands  back  coat)  I  wouldn't  steal  any 
thing. 

DANIEL.  You  couldn't — it's  your  coat.  (Assists  him 
into  coat)  You  asked  for  it,  and  I  gave  it  to  you. — 


ACT   THREE  91 

When  you've  worn  it — into  a  good  job — come  back  and 
help  me  give  another  to  someone  who  needs  it  as  you  do. 

MACK.    I  will. 

DANIEL.  Of  course,  you  will.  (Slaps  his  back,  and 
shakes  hands  warmly)  Goodnight. 

MACK.    Goodnight. 

(DANIEL  crosses  MACK  to  R.  and  picks  up  umbrella, 
putting  it  back  on  rack.  MACK  goes  up  to  the  door, 
turns,  looks  at  DANIEL'S  back,  and  then  catches 
GOODKIND'S  eye.  Pats  his  forehead,  makes  a  ges 
ture  expressing  "wheels"  and,  jumping  through  the 
door,  exits.  GOODKIND  has  watched  all  this.) 

GOODKIND.  Well,  I'll  be  damned !  (DANIEL  laughs) 
He  won't  come  back !  Not  one  in  ten  would  come  back ! 

DANIEL.  (Going  to  him  R.  of  bench)  All  right! 
— That  coat  cost  twenty  dollars.  If  one  in  ten  does 
come  back,  we've  made  a  man  for  two  hundred  dollars. 
Isn't  it  worth  the  price? 

GOODKIND.  Maybe — if  a  man's  got  the  price.  Have 
you? 

DANIEL.  (Sits  in  chair  R.c.)  Like  our  friend  here, 
that's  what  I  wanted  to  ask  you.  I'm  rather  badly  in 
need  of  money,  and  my  father 

GOODKIND.  Your  father  understood  you  well  enough 
to  leave  you  only  an  income.  I  foolishly  turned  over 
some  of  the  principal  and,  in  two  months,  you  threw 
away  thirty  thousand  dollars.  You,  could  have  had  a  big 
salary,  and  you  threw  that  away.  You're  an  utter 

GOODKIND.  Or  three  times — or  a  dozen !  He  knows ! 
damned  waster — (Rises)  if  you're  no  worse!  (To 

L.C.) 

DANIEL.    What  do  you  mean — worse? 
GOODKIND.      You'll   soon   find   out   what   I   mean! 
You've  had  my  son's  wife  down  here,  haven't  you? 
DANIEL.    Once  or  twice. 
DANIEL.    I've  asked  her  not  to  come  again. 


92  THE    FOOL 

GOODKIND.  Yes,  and  he's  asked  her — but  she's  com 
ing  when  she  likes.  She  says  so.  Because  she's  in  love 
with  you — God  knows  what  women  see  in  your  kind  of 
man!  There  was  Pearl  Hennig 

DANIEL.   Please! 

GOODKIND.  Oh,  my  son  told  me!  And  I  hear — in 
the  neighborhood — that  you've  worse  women  than  that 
running  here !  Women  of  the  streets  ! 

DANIEL.  Not  many.  They're  welcome,  but  they 
don't  come. 

GOODKIND.  Well,  that's  your  business !  And  if  your 
neighbors  get  sick  of  having  a  resort  of  this  kind  in 
their  midst,  and  drive  you  out,  that's  your  business! 
But  my  son's  wife 

DANIEL.     (Rising)     Is  her  business. 

GOODKIND.  And  his !  Only  Jerry's  in  no  condition 
to  settle  the  matter!  He's  broken  down  from  worry 
and  overwork,  and  you're  partly  responsible,  and  that 
puts  it  up  to  me !  You  can  take  this  as  a  final  warning ! 
If  you  see  Clare  again,  I'll  act,  and  I'll  act  quick! 
That's  all!  Goodnight!  (Crosses  in  front  of  DAN  to 
the  door  R.) 

DANIEL.  (Waking  from  a  reverie,- and  turning  R.) 
Oh!  Mr.  Goodkind! 

GOODKIND.  (Expecting  capitulation.  R.C.  upstage) 
Yes? 

DANIEL.     How  about  the  money? 

GOODKIND.  (Coming  down  R.  of  DANIEL  and  on 
line  with  him)  You've  had  what's  coming  to  you ! 

DANIEL.  But  that's  nothing!  I  pay  half  that  for 
these  crazy  houses !  And  I've  got  terribly  in  debt  fitting 
them  up ! 

GOODKIND.     With  bathrooms  and  tennis  courts! 

DANIEL.    People  must  have  baths. 

GOODKIND.     These  dirty  immigrants! 

DANIEL.  The  dirtier  they  are,  the  worse  they  need 
'em. 

GOODKIND.    (Shocked)    Ugh ! 


ACT    THREE  93 

DANIEL.  I  want  to  show  them  how  to  live,  and  I 
want  to  show  other  people — you  needn't  make  a  pig 
pen  to  make  a  profit. 

GOODKIND.    Are  you  making  a  profit? 

DANIEL.  Enormous!  And  to  go  on,  I've  got  to 
have  twenty-two  thousand  dollars. 

GOODKIND.  Oh,  is  that  all?  Twenty-two  thousand 
dollars  to  go  on  making  a  fool  of  yourself !  Well,  you 
won't  get  it ! 

DANIEL.    Not  even  as  an  advance? 

GOODKIND.    Not  a  penny ! 

DANIEL.    Don't  force  me  to 

GOODKIND.    To  what? 

DANIEL.  (Rather  at  a  loss)  To  ask  for  an  ac 
counting  ! 

GOODKIND.  (Comes  toward  him,  hardly  knowing 
and  believing  his  own  ears)  To  ask  for — WHAT? 
(This  is  the  last  straw)  Now  you  listen  to  me!  I've 
stood  all  I'm  going  to  stand!  You've  run  amuck! 
You've  become  dangerous  to  yourself  ! — and — me — and 
the  neighborhood !  You're  going  to  stop  it,  and  you're 
going  to  stop  it  now ! 

DANIEL.    That's  your  mistake. 

GOODKIND.  Is  it  ?  A  year  ago  you  gave  me  twenty- 
four  hours  to  sign  a  paper.  I  did  it,  and  it  cost  me  two 
million  dollars!  Tonight  I  give  you  thirty  minutes  to 
shut  up  this  place,  and  quit  seeing  my  daughter,  and 
if  you  won't  do  it 

DANIEL.    As  I  won't! 

DOODKIND.  I'll  be  here  inside  a  half  an  hour  with 
a  doctor ! 

DANIEL.    And  then? 

GOODKIND.  Then  we'll  file  a  petition  to  have  you 
declared  incompetent !  (He  starts  R.) 

DANIEL.  Mr.  Goodkind,  you  don't  mean  that !  You 
don't  mean  that  because  I'm  trying  to  help 

GOODKIND.  (Turns  back)  Help — whom?  Strikers, 
and  street  women,  and  general  riff-raff !  And  you  don't 


94  THE    FOOL 

even  help  them — because  nobody  can!  And,  if  you 
could,  and  did,  how  in  the  name  of  God  would  that 
help  the  community?  If  I  find  you're  still  crazy  in 
half  an  hour,  I'll  say  you're  crazy,  and  I'll  prove  it! 
(DANIEL  goes  up  L.  to  bookcase  to  fill  pipe)  Think  it 
over! 

(As  he  is  about  to  exit,  he  narrowly  escapes  collision 
with  UMANSKI,  neatly  dressed  and  capable-look 
ing,  who  apologizes,  in  nearly  correct  English,  and 
with  a  resentful  glance,  crosses  to  up  c.  DANIEL 
fills  his  pipe  at  bookcase.) 

UMANSKI.    Excuse!     (Crosses  up  c.) 

GOODKIND.  Wait  a  minute.  (He  follows  the  man 
a  step  on  stage)  Haven't  I  seen  you  somewhere  be 
fore? 

UMANSKI.    Yes,  sir.     My  name's  Umanski. 

GOODKIND.  Umanski?  (He  remembers)  You're 
not  the  Pole  who  came  to  my  house  that  night  with  a 
delegation  ? 

UMANSKI.  (At  upper  R.  corner  of  table)  Yes. 
Mr.  Gilchrist  tell  me  stay  in  New  York.  He's  teach 
me  English,  and  find  me  good  job.  I'm  work  now  eight 
hours  on  the  docks,  and  six  on  myself. 

GOODKIND.     (At  door)     Well,  I'm  damned 

DANIEL.  Mr.  Goodkind!  (  GOODKIND  turns) 
Umanski's  got  an  invention.  If  you'll  see  it 

GOODKIND.  I'll  see  you  in (Is  going  to  say 

"Hell,"  but  alters  tone  and  says)  half  an  hour! 
(Exit.) 

UMANSKI.  (Down  R.  to  lower  R.  corner  table) 
What's  he  doing  down  here,  Mr.  Gilchrist? 

DANIEL.  (Sits  L.  of  table,  on  chair  facing  UMAN 
SKI)  He  says  I'm  crazy,  and  he's  going  to  shut  up 
this  place.  Of  course,  he  won't.  (He  opens  a  book 
which  he  carries  in  his  pocket.) 

UMANSKI,    Don't  be  too  sure. 


ACT    THREE  95 

DANIEL.  Nonsense!  I  made  him  angry.  (He 
marks  a  passage)  And  somebody's  told  him  a  lot  of 
lies! 

UMANSKI.  Somebody's  told  a  good  many  people 
lies!  (Across  table)  Yesterday  I  heard  a  man  say 
you  run  this  house — to — (He  hesitates.  DANIEL  looks 
up)  to  get  women! 

DANIEL.    Who  said  that? 

UMANSKI.    A  wop  named  Malduca. 

DANIEL.  Oh,  yes !  I  remember.  I  took  his  daughter 
in  here  once — for  a  week — until  he  got  sober. 

UMANSKI.    They's  a  good  many  like  that. 

DANIEL.    Oh,  not  a  good  many! 

UMANSKI.  Enough  to  make  trouble.  Why  not  you 
carry  a  pistol  ? 

DANIEL.  It's  generally  men  that  carry  pistols  who 
get  shot. 

UMANSKI.  (Across  table)  One  of  them  fellows 
get  you — and  then 

MARY  MARGARET.  (Off  stage)  Now  don't  spill  the 
coffee. 

GRUBBY.     (Offstage)     Narry  a  drop. 

DANIEL.  (Warning  him)  Sh!  (UMANSKI  crosses 
below  table  to  L.  of  DANIEL.) 

MARY  MARGARET.  (Entering  and  going  to  L.  upper 
corner  of  table.  To  DAN)  I  s'pose  you  ain't  had  any 
supper  ? 

DANIEL.    Not  yet. 

(GRUBBY  enters  and  crosses  to  back  of  table  R.  of  MARY 
MARGARET,  with  a  tray  having  lamb  chop,  milk, 
coffee,  etc.,  which  MARY  MARGARET  transfers  to 
DANIEL'S  end  of  the  table.) 

UMANSKI.  (L.  of  DAN)  I  brought  you  some 
money. 

DANIEL.    Money? 
UMANSKI.    My  boss  he  give  me  another  raise.    He 


96  THE    FOOL 

gonna  make  me  boss  after  while.  So  I  thought  I  be 
gin  to  pay  back  what  you  lend  me.  (Takes  out  bills.) 

DANIEL.    Wait  'till  you've  sent  for  your  family. 

UMANSKI.  I'm  gonna  send  now.  My  big  boy  I'm 
gonna  send  school — college,  maybe.  (Hands  him 
money)  You  know  that  pump  I  make,  she  goes  fine. 
I  show  my  boss — like  you  say — because  he  know  about 
coal  mines — and  he  say  if  she  work  she  save  whole  lots 
of  lives  and  money.  She  work,  all  right!  (He  has 
brought  forth  an  English  grammar)  How  about  I  go 
upstairs  and  study  ? 

DANIEL.  Sure!  Go  right  up  to  my  room!  I'll  be 
along  after  the  meeting ! 

(GRUBBY  has  started  to  door  R.  UMANSKI  now  starts 
to  cross  above  table  toward  R.  DANIEL  sees 
GRUBBY.) 

Where  are  you  going,  Grubby? 

GRUBBY.    Sandwiches ! 

UMANSKI.  Oh,  sandwiches!  (He  slaps  GRUBBY 
on  the  back  shooting  him  thru  the  door  R.  and  follows 
him  laughing.  Exeunt  GRUBBY  and  UMANSKI.) 

MARY  MARGARET.  (Down  L.  a  little  below  DAN) 
Your  supper's  ready ! 

DANIEL.  Thanks.  (A  moment's  pause.  MARY 
MARGARET,  disappointed  that  DANIEL  is  reading  and 
does  not  look  at  her,  taps  with  her  crutch  on  the  floor  to 
attract  attention.  DANIEL  still  does  not  turn.  She  taps 
again.  DANIEL  turns.  With  her  crutch  she  points  at 
her  slippers.  DANIEL  looks  down)  What's  this  we're 
wearing?  Golden  slippers? 

MARY  MARGARET.  Uh-huh!  I  took  'em  out  of  the 
barrel  of  clothes  that  pretty  lady  sent. 

DANIEL.  (Rises,  comes  downstage  a  step,  and  looks 
at  the  slippers  with  mock  wonder.  Then,  pretending 
to  be  the  Fairy  Prince,  he  walks  up  between  MARY 
MARGARET  and  the  table  to  behind  chair  above  and  L. 


ACT    THREE  97 

of  table,  and  places  it  for  MARY  MARGARET.  Then 
makes  a  sweeping  gesture  indicating  that  she  should 
be  seated.)  Supper  with  Cinderella! 

MARY  MARGARET.  Gee,  I  love  that  story!  (Crosses 
to  chair.  She  sits  above  him,  facing  front)  When  you 
tell  it  to  me,  you  make  me  believe  I'm  her. 

DANIEL.  (Sits  L.  of  table)  If  you  believe  it — you 
are. 

MARY  MARGARET.  I  guess  believin'  ain't  never  goin' 
to  make  me  dance. 

DANIEL.  (Stirs  his  coffee)  You  can't  tell — if  you 
believe  hard  enough. 

MARY  MARGARET.  That's  what  you  said  before, 
and  I've  tried,  but  somehow  it  don't  work. 

DANIEL.  That's  the  very  time  to  go  on.  If  we  stop, 
just  because  it  don't  work,  that  isn't  faith. 

MARY  MARGARET.    No;  I  s'pose  not. 

DANIEL.  And  faith  moves  mountains.  Once  upon  a 
time — (He  drinks  his  coffee.  At  "once  upon  a  time," 
MARY  MARGARET  draws  her  chair  nearer  to  the  table 
in  delight  at  the  prospect  of  hearing  a  story.  DANIEL 
looks  at  her,  puts  down  his  coffee  cup,  smiles,  and  goes 
on)  Once  upon  a  time,  there  was  a  woman  who'd  been 
sick  twelve  years. 

MARY.   What  was  the  matter  with  her  ? 

DANIEL.  (Looks  front  and  laughs  at  his  inability 
to  answer  the  question)  I  don't  know.  (Turns  to  her 
again)  But  there  was  a  Man  in  that  city  who  said  He 
could  even  make  the  dead  rise.  And  everybody  laughed 
at  Him  just  as  they  would  today.  But  the  woman  didn't 
laugh,  and  one  morning,  when  He  was  passing  her 
house,  she  got  up  and  followed  Him — just  to  touch  the 
hem  of  His  cloak.  And  what  do  you  think? 

MARY  MARGARET.   I  dunno. 

DANIEL.  She  was  cured.  And  the  Man  said 

MARY  MARGARET.  Oh — now  I  know.  "Thy  faith 
hath  made  thee  whole." 

DANIEL,    That's  right. 


98  THE    FOOL 

MARY  MARGARET.   Could  God  do  that  for  me  ? 

DANIEL.   Why  not  ? 

MARY  MARGARET.    It  would  be  an  awful  big  favor. 

DANIEL.  But  if  he  doesn't,  you  must  go  on.  If  faith 
doesn't  heal  our  hurts,  it  helps  us  to  bear  them.  And 
that's  almost  the  same  thing,  isn't  it? 

MARY  MARGARET.  (Doubtfully  turns  head  away. 
Tear  in  voice)  Yes. 

DANIEL.  (Plays  with  her  curls)  Like  believing 
you're  Cinderella. 

MARY  MARGARET.  (Smiles  at  him  through  her  tears) 
Yes. 

DANIEL.  We  can't  decide  what  we  want,  and  then 
be  angry  and  doubtful  just  because  it  doesn't  happen 
our  way.  Because  all  the  time  it's  happening  His  way. 
The  only  thing  we  can  be  sure  of  is  He  knows  what's 
best. 

MARY  MARGARET.  That's  right.  (Pause)  You  mean, 
if  God  wants  me  to  be  well,  some  day  He'll  make  me 
well? 

DANIEL.    If  you  believe  hard  enough. 

MARY  MARGARET.  And  if  He  don't  ? 

DANIEL.  Then  that's  right — if  you  believe  hard 
enough. 

MARY  MARGARET.  I  will,  Mr.  Gilchrist.  (She  rises) 
Oh,  you  ain't  touched  your  supper. 

DANIEL.     (Pushes  back  tray)     I've  had  plenty. 

MARY  MARGARET.    I'll  send  Grubby  up  for  the  tray. 

(She  exits.  DANIEL  finishes,  and  puts  up  his  napkin. 
He  observes  that  the  window-shades  have  not  been 
drawn.  Goes  up,  lighting  his  pipe,  and  is  about  to 
draw  shade.  Facing  R.  with  his  hand  on  the  shade 
of  the  window  L.  he  pauses  to  look  out.  PEARL 
HEN  NIG  enters.  PEARL  is  25,  and  her  clothes  arc 
cheaply  flashy.  An  experienced  eye  should  lose  no 
time  in  appraising  her.  She  has  an  air  of  alarm. 


ACT    THREE  99 

She  looks  round  for  DAN,  and  then  isn't  quite  sure 
of  him  in  the  shadow  upstage.) 

PEARL.  (At  door.  Uncertainly)  Mr.  Gilchrist? 
(He  half  turns  and  she  sees  him)  Mr.  Gilchrist! — 
Don't  stand  by  that  window.  (Closes  door.) 

DANIEL.  Hello,  Pearl!  (He  draws  the  shade)  How 
well  you're  looking.  (Comes  down  L.)  What's  the 
matter  with  the  window? 

PEARL.  It  ain't  safe.  (Goes  up  to  window  R.  Pulls 
down  that  shade.) 

DANIEL.  (Smiling)  Are  you  going  to  advise  me  to 
carry  a  pistol? 

PEARL.  No.  Just  to  keep  out  o'  sight  of  people  who 
do. 

DANIEL.    Meaning  ? 

PEARL.    Meaning  Joe  Hennig. 

DANIEL.  (Down  L.  of  table)  I  thought  Joe  was  in 
Black  River. 

PEARL.  (Down  R.)  Well,  he  ain't.  I  told  you  he 
was  ashamed  to  go  home.  I  told  you  he  was  gonna  stay 
here  an5  get  you! 

DANIEL.     (Sits  on  bench  in  front  of  table)     Well? 

PEARL.  (Over  to  R.  of  table)  Well — he  stayed.  I 
went  to  him — like  I  told  you — an'  said  it  wasn't  you — 
and  'ast  him  to  take  me  back.  An'  he  said  I  lied  an'  he 
was  gonna  get  you.  I  told  you  all  that ! 

DANIEL.   Yes ;  I  guess  you  did. 

PEARL.  While  he  was  workin'  up  town  I  didn't  hear 
nothin'  about  him.  But  a  little  while  ago  he  lost  his  job, 
and  began  hangin'  aroun'  down  here.  An'  he's  been 
drinkin',  an'  talkin'  wild,  an'  I  come  in  to  tell  you. 

DANIEL.  That's  kind  of  you,  Pearl,  but  I'm  not 
afraid  of  Joe. 

PEARL.     Wrell — I  am.     He's  got  his  gang — /  know. 

DANIEL.    How  do  you  know? 

PEARL.  (Hesitates)  Well,  last  night  I  met  up  with 
one  of  his  pals — An'  he'd  been  drinkin'  an'  he  said  Joe 


100  THE    FOOL 

said  you  was  livin'  on  women  an'  this  place  was  a  blind, 
an'  nobody's  wife  was  safe  while  you  was  in  the 
neighborhood.  An'  this  man  said  they  was  gonna  get 
together,  an'  drive  you  out.  (He  smiles)  I  tell  you 
they're  dangerous,  Mr.  Gilchrist.  For  God's  sake,  be 
lieve  me !  For  God's  sake,  telephone  the  police ! 

DANIEL.  There's  no  telephone  here,  Pearl.  But 
there's  always  an  officer  at  hand,  and  I'm  among  friends. 
Don't  worry.  Sit  down  and  wait  for  the  meeting. 
(She  turns  away)  Sit  down.  (She  sits)  That's  right. 
I  haven't  seen  you  in  ages. 

PEARL.    (Restless)    Two  weeks. 

DANIEL.    What  are  you  doing  ? 

PEARL.     I'm  working — at  Macy's. 

DANIEL.    Like  it? 

PEARL.     (Defiantly)     Better  than  bein'  with  Joe. 

DANIEL.  If  you'd  stayed — with  Joe,  maybe  ht 
wouldn't  be  drinking. 

PEARL.  He  always  did.  That's  why  I  ast  you  to 
stick  around  in  Black  River.  That's  one  reason  I  quit. 

DANIEL.    One  reason  ? 

PEARL.  (Admitting  it  grudgingly)  Well — there  was 
others — I  wanted  good  clothes,  an'  a  good  time — jus' 
like  other  women. 

DANIEL.  (Thinking  of  CLARE)  Yes — like  other 
women. 

PEARL.     (Indicating  her  costume)     An'  I  got  'em! 

DANIEL.  Yes ;  you've  got  'em.  But  don't  you  think 
sometime — you  and  the  other  women — that  they  cost 
you  too  much? 

PEARL.    I  don't  get  you. 

DANIEL.  I  only  mean  isn't  there  something  worth 
more  than  good  clothes  and  a  good  time  ?  A  good  home, 
maybe,  with  love  in  it — and  little  children. 

PEARL.  (Hesitates,  and  cannot  meet  his  eyes)  Oh — 
we  oughtn't  to  be  talkin'  here.  (Rises  and  goes  up  to 
window  R.  Peeps  out.) 

DANIEL.    Why  not? 


ACT    THREE  101 

PEARL.   I'm  frightened  of  Joe. 

DANIEL.    You  needn't  be. 

PEARL.  lam.  I  can't  help  it.  I  got  a  hunch  ./•,!;  a  ja't 
told  you  all  this  man  said,  an'  I  ain't^tcM  iytiu'' h"ctv£  'he; 
come  to  say  it,  but  he  said  it  was  gonna  be  soon,  an'  I 
got  a  hunch  sumpin's  gonna  happen  tonight.  Please  let 
me  go  out  an'  phone!  Please  let  me  get  the  police! 
(Down.  DANIEL  laughs)  You're  crazy,  Mr.  Gilchrist ! 
(An  infinitesimal  pause)  An'  I'm  goin'! 

(As  she  turns  to  go,  the  door  opens  before  her,  and  ad 
mits  CLARE  JEWETT.  CLARE  is  smartly  gowned,  in 
street  attire,  but  somehoiv  she  has  the  appearance 
of  being  disheveled — of  having  dressed  in  haste.) 

DANIEL.  (Rising)  Clare — Mrs.  Goodkind!  (A 
pause)  Mrs.  Hennig's  just  going. 

CLARE.    (Comes  on  stage)    Mrs.  Hennig? 

DANIEL.  Pearl  Hennig.  You've  heard  your  husband 
mention  her  name. 

PEARL.  (Up  stage  of  CLARE  R.C.)  I  know  your  hus 
band. 

CLARE.  I  know  you  do.  (Her  tone  tells  how  much 
she  knows.) 

PEARL.  (Quails)  I  guess  you  ain't  got  much  use 
for  me. 

CLARE.   JWhy?    What's  the  difference  between  us? 

PEARL.  (Unable  to  make  it  out)  Well!  (Crosses 
back  of  CLARE  to  door)  Goodnight. 

(CLARE  goes  to  DANIEL  R.C.    PEARL  exits.) 

DANIEL.    (Cheerfully)    Goodnight,  Pearl.     (Differ 
ent  tone)    Clare,  I  asked  you  not  to  come  here. 
CLARE.    I'd  nowhere  else  to  go.    I've  left  him. 
DANIEL.    Left — Jerry  ? 
CLARE.    For  good.    He  struck  me. 
DANIEL.   No!! 


102  THE    FOOL 

:  i  CLARE,  .Yes !  °  And  he's  lying  now — brandy-soaked 
and  half -conscious — across  the  foot  of  my  bed ! 

PANIELC,   I  can't^-believe 

| »"  £s,ARE.  °  He's  been  drinking — more  and  more !  And, 
of  course,  there've  been  women — oh,  from  the  begin 
ning!  Do  you  remember — in  your  church — a  Mrs. 
Thornbury?  He's  been  quite  open  about  her!  Tonight 
we  were  going  out  to  dinner.  He  came  to  my  room — 
drunk — and  babbled  that  he'd  refused  to  go  until  she 
was  invited !  Then  /  refused  to  go — and  he  accused  me 
— of  you — and  struck  me  with  his  fist ! 

DANIEL.  He  accused — you? 

CLARE.  Yes,  and  then  he  tried  to  take  me  in  his  arms ! 
I  said  once  there  was  nothing  more  degrading  than 
poverty.  In  the  past  two  years  I've  learned  what  de 
gradation  means !  I've  come  to  realize  that  the  material 
things  are  nothing,  and  that  love  is  all !  It  isn't  too  late  ? 

DANIEL.     It's  never  too  late! 

CLARE.  I  knew  you'd  say  that !  I'll  share  your  work 
— your  want — if  need  be — gladly !  Only  take  me  away ! 
(Goes  to  him  c.) 

DANIEL.    Clare ! 

CLARE.  Don't  you  understand  that  I'm  offering  my 
self  to  you? 

DANIEL.    Yes;  I  understand. 

CLARE.  (Hands  on  his  shoulders)  I  love  you!  I 
need  you!  This  is  our  last  chance  for  happiness!  I've 
been  blind,  and  stupid,  but  it  isn't  too  late!  Take  me, 
and  hold  me,  and  we'll  both  forget! 

DANIEL.   Forget? 

CLARE.  Forget  everything.  Won't  you  take  me, 
dear? 

(His  hands,  in  his  desire  to  clasp  her,  play  a  tragic  part. 
He  controls  himself  to  the  last.) 

DANIEL.    No! 

CLARE.    Don't  you  want  me? 


ACT    THREE  103 

DANIEL.    No!    (Pause.) 

CLARE.  That's  not  true !  You  love  me !  You've  al 
ways  loved  me.  Look  at  me,  and  deny  it  if  you  can! 

DANIEL.  I  don't  deny  it!  I  love  you !  (For  the  mo 
ment,  he  has  lost  control  of  himself.  The  audience 
must  beli&ue  that  he  is  about  to  clasp  CLARE.  His  arms 
go  up  to  her  shoulders,  and,  with  the  next  two  words, 
caress  her  arms,  moving  in  the  direction  of  her  hands, 
which  are  on  his  shoulders)  I  love — (His  hands  have 
touched  her,  and  brought  him  to  a  sense  of  his  danger. 
Resolutely,  he  takes  hold  of  her  hands,  removes  them 
from  his  shoulders,  and  puts  her  away  from  him,  fin 
ishing  his  sentence  in  a  totally  different  tone — absolutely 
master  of  himself)  I  love  the  good  in  you — the  good 
you're  trying  so  hard  to  kill !  I  love  you  because  you're" 
strong  enough  to  do  what's  right ! 

CLARE.  What  is  right  ?  (Puzzled  and  beginning  to  be 
angry.  "Hell  hath  no  jury  like  a  woman  scorned") 

DANIEL.    Go  back  to  your  husband. 

CLARE.    I'd  rather  die. 

DANIEL.    I'd  rather  you  died — than  this ! 

CLARE.  (Furiously)  Oh,  you  fanatic!  You  blind 
fanatic!  (Crosses  R.) 

DANIEL.   I  love  you !    (Takes  a  step  toward  her.) 

CLARE.  Love!  You  don't  know  what  love  means! 
You're  only  half  a  man! 

DANIEL.  And  I'm  praying  to  God,  with  all  my 
strength,  to  save  us  from  the  other  half. 

CLARE.    For  what? 

DANIEL.    For  you 

(Off  R.  very  softly,  as  she  goes  down  the  hall,  MARY 
MARGARET  is  heard  singing  "I'm  a  Pilgrim;  I'm  a 
Stranger") 

and  him — and   for  my  people.      For  the  little  girl 
out  there. 


104  THE    FOOL 

CLARE.  And  for  them  you'd  send  me  back  to  de 
gradation  ? 

DANIEL.  That  little  girl's  known  degradation  that 
you  and  I  will  never  know.  And  she's  singing.  Her 
constant  companions  are  poverty  and  pain — and  she's 
singing.  She's  crippled.  She  may  never  walk  again. 
And  still  she  can  say  God's  will  be  done.  She  believes 
in  me.  I  can't  disappoint  her,  and  the  rest.  I'm  going 
on  with  my  job,  and  you're  going  back  to  yours! 

CLARE.    You  mean  to  Jerry? 

DANIEL.    Yes. 

CLARE.    (Goes  to  him)    You  think  that's  God's  will? 

DANIEL.  I  know  it's  your  job.  You  took  it  with  your 
eyes  open.  It's  up  to  you  to  see  it  through. 

CLARE.  Must  I  go  on  forever  paying  for  one  mistake  ? 

DANIEL.  Somebody  must  pay  for  our  mistakes. 
That  it  was  wrong  to  make  a  bargain  doesn't  make  it 
right  to  break  the  bargain  when  we  get  tired  of  it. 

CLARE.    (Crosses  L.C.)    I  don't  know  what  to  do. 

DANIEL.  (Follows  her  to  L.)  Play  the  game.  Go 
back  to  that  poor,  mistaken  man  lying  across  the  foot 
of  your  bed — his  mind  going  and  his  health  gone.  Bear 
your  punishment  and  help  him  to  bear  his.  That's  your 
duty! 

CLARE.  (Her  back  is  toward  him)  Duty!  Duty!! 
Duty ! ! !  What  about  happiness  ? 

DANIEL.  There  is  no  other  happiness.  (She  looks 
up  at  him)  Oh,  don't  you  see,  my  dear,  that's  been 
your  great  mistake?  You're  always  crying — you  and 
the  world — "I  want  to  be  happy !"  Happiness  is  service ! 
Happiness  is  clean-living,  and  clear-thinking,  and  self- 
forgetfulness,  and  self-respect! 

CLARE.     (Looking  front)     And  love? 

DANIEL.  Love? — Love  isn't  all.  (She  turns)  Not 
the  love  you  mean.  You  said :  "Take  me  and  we'll  both 
forget."  Could  we  have  forgotten  promises  unkept, 
faith  disappointed,  aspirations  unrealized?  No,  my 
dear,  love  isn't  all ;  nor  even  happiness.  There's  some- 


ACT    THREE  105 

thing  bigger,  and  better,  and  more  important,  and  that 
something  is— DUTY! 

CLARE.    The  world  doesn't  think  that ! 

DANIEL.  That's  what's  wrong  with  the  world!  (A 
pause.) 

CLARE.    Do  you  want  me  to  go  back? 

DANIEL.    I  want  you  to  be  right ! 

CLARE.  Well  then — I'm  going  through.  I'm  going 
back  and  play  the  game — with  you  in  my  heart  always. 
You  don't  forbid  that,  do  you? 

DANIEL.    You  are  in  mine  always. 

CLARE.  And  this  isn't  goodbye.  Sometime — some 
where — in  this  world,  or  out  of  it — there  must  be  a  mo 
ment — and  a  place — to  retrieve  mistakes — (Crosses  R. 
to  door.) 

DANIEL.  Clare — (Stops  her.  Crosses  to  her  and  ex- 
tends  hands)  Goodnight.  (She  takes  his  hands.) 

CLARE.    Goodnight. 

(She  exits.  The  outer  door  slams.  Then  a  cab  door — 
faintly.  He  thinks — tired  with  the  effort  of  re- 
ununciation.  Then  he  comes  down,  slowly,  and 
drops  on  the  R.  end  of  the  bench  in  front  of  the 
table.  MARY  MARGARET  enters,  singing  "I'm  a 
Pilgrim."  She  is  down  R.  when  she  sees  DANIEL.) 

MARY  MARGARET.    Ain't  you  well,  Mr.  Gilchrist  ? 

DANIEL.    Just  tired. 

MARY  MARGARET.  Maybe  you  ain't  believin'  hard 
enough.  (He  looks  up,  puts  hand  on  her  shoulder,  pats 
her  and  crosses  L.  MARY  MARGARET  goes  up  around 
table  to  L.  and  stands  back  of  it)  It's  most  time  for  the 
meeting. 

(GRUBBY  enters  with  a  tray.) 

GRUBBY.  I  brung  the  sandwiches.  (Places  tray  on 
table  L.  of  blackboard  c.) 


106  THE    FOOL 

MARY  MARGARET.    Where's  the  coffee? 

(MRS.  MULLIGAN  enters.  She  is  the  worse  for  liquor 
and  glad  of  a  warm  place  to  enjoy  it.  She  slinks 
in  rather  furtively,  and  sits  R.  end  of  table.  She 
is  followed  by  MR.  and  MRS.  HENCHLEY.  MR. 
HEN CH LEY  may  be  cut  out  if  desired.  He  is 
a  middle-aged  and  respectable  locksmith.  She  is 
larger  than  he,  and  somewhat  formidable.  GRUBBY 
removes  supper  tray,  lays  tray  on  phonograph  top. ) 

Good  evening,  Mrs.  Mulligan. 

MRS.  MULLIGAN.    (With  a  hiccough)    It  is  not! 

GRUBBY.  (Down  L.  of  MARY  MARGARET.  Aside  to 
her)  Bums — like  that — ain't  got  no  business  here. 

MR.  HENCHLEY.  (R.)  Good  evening,  Mary 
Margaret.  (She  nods.) 

MARY  MARGARET.    Good  evening,  Mr.  Henchley. 

MRS.  HENCHLEY.  (Shakes  hands  with  DANIEL) 
Good  evening,  Mr.  Gilchrist. 

DANIEL,  (c.)  Good  evening,  Mrs.  Henchley,  and 
welcome. 

MR.  HENCHLEY.  (Gets  R.  of  MRS.  HENCHLEY.  To 
DANIEL)  I  guess  we're  early. 

MRS.  HENCHLEY.  (Confidentially.  To  DANIEL) 
Yes,  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you — about  his  pants. 

DANIEL.    Pants  ?   Whose  pants  ? 

MRS.  HENCHLEY.  Mr.  Henchley 's  pants.  I  took  out 
a  spot  with  gasoline  and  hung  'em  out  on  the  fire-escape 
to  dry.  When  I  went  to  look  for  them  they  was  gone. 
I  think  you  ought  to  look  into  your  lodgers. 

(MR.  HENCHLEY  pulls  his  wife's  shawl.  MRS.  HENCH 
LEY  sits  L.  end  of  bench,  with  back  to  audience, 
MR.  HENCHLEY  R.  end.) 

DANIEL.    We'll  talk  about  them  later. 


ACT    THREE  107 

(Enter  Miss  LEVINSON.  She  is  a  Jewess — a  garment 
worker — thoughtful,  studious,  spectacled.) 

Miss  LEVINSON.  Good  evening,  everybody.  (Crosses 
to  DANIEL  in  front  of  table.) 

DANIEL.  Good  evening,  Miss  Levinson.  (The  others, 
too,  acknowledge  the  greeting.) 

Miss  LEVINSON.    I've  brought  back  your  book. 

(DANIEL  takes  book.  Miss  LEVINSON  turns  L.  to  go. 
MRS.  HENCHLEY  stops  her  by  taking  hold  of  her 
arm.) 

MRS.  HENCHLEY.    WhatVe  you  been  reading? 

Miss  LEVINSON.    George  Bernard  Shaw. 

MRS.  HENCHLEY.  I  suppose  you  ain't  read  "The 
Sheick." 

Miss  LEVINSON.  (With  justifiable  pride)  I've  been 
reading  "Caesar  and  Cleopatra." 

(Miss  LEVINSON  goes  around  L.  end  of  table  upstage, 
gets  a  camp  stool,  comes  down,  and  places  it  at  the 
U.R.  corner  of  table.  The  positions  are  now  as  fol 
lows:  MRS.  MULLIGAN  R.  of  table.  Then  Miss 
LEVINSON  on  the  camp  stool.  Then  MARY 
MARGARET  R.  above  table,  and  GRUBBY  L.  above 
table.  DANIEL  stands  at  L.  of  table.  In  front  of 
table,  with  backs  to  the  audience,  on  the  bench, 
MRS.  HENCHLEY  L.  and  MR.  HENCHLEY  R.) 

DANIEL.   We've  been  reading  Shaw  together. 

PEARL.  (Enters  RV  agitatedly,  throwing  open  upper 
half  of  door)  Mr.  Gilchrist!  (Holds  R.c.) 

DANIEL.  (Down  from  chair  L.  end  table  c.  facing  R.) 
Oh,  Pearl — I  thought  you'd  gone. 

PEARL.  No.  I've  been  watchin'  and  I've  got  to  speak 
to  you — quick ! 


108  THE    FOOL 

GILCHRIST.  In  just  a  few  minutes.  (Turns  to  face 
blackboard  up  c.) 

PEARL.   NOW.   Joe's  out  there. 

MRS.  MULLIGAN.  (Seated  at  R.  end  table  c.  faces 
PEARL,  raucously)  Aw,  shut  up. 

DANIEL.  Mrs.  Mulligan — (Quiet  reproof)  Pearl — 
you're  interrupting.  (To  all)  I  was  going  to  say — 
that's  where  we  get  the  quotation  on  the  board.  I've 
jumbled  it  a  bit — (Reads  writing  on  board  up  c.  PEARL 
goes  up  to  window  R.  and  looks  out)  "And  so,  to  the 
end  of  history,  hate  shall  breed  hate,  murder  shall 
breed  murder,  until  the  gods  create  a  race  that  can 
understand " 

(A  brick  is  thrown  against  window-pane  up  L.C.  and 
comes  into  room,  through  the  one  pane  of  glass  in 
window  L.) 

(ALL:  ad  lib  exclamations  of  alarm  and  surprise  as 
they  spring  to  feet.  GRUBBY  holds  rear  of  table  L. 
end  facing  window.  MARY  MARGARET  holds  rear 
of  table  R.  and  facing  window,  in  terror.  MRS. 
MULLIGAN  to  down  R.;  Miss  LEVINSON  to  R.C.  a 
step.  MR.  HENCHLEY  rises,  holds  R.  end  bench  c. 
facing  window.  GILCHRIST  goes  up  and  looks  out 
of  window  up  L.C.  MRS.  HENCHLEY  rises,  steps  up, 
remains  at  L.  lower  corner  table  c.  Then  pushes 
armchair  to  L.  by  fireplace.) 

DANIEL.  Don't  be  alarmed.  It's  only  some  hoodlum. 
(Finishing  line  as  he  gets  to  window.) 

PEARL.  (Comes  down  from  window  to  above  table 
R.)  Mr.  Gilchrist — it's  Joe.  I  seen  him  in  front.  That's 
why  I  couldn't  get  out.  Somebody  go  get  the  police. 

MRS.  MULLIGAN.  Police!  Police!  (Up  R.C.  to  near 
window. ) 

DANIEL.  (Stopping  her  at  window  L.)  No.  (Slowly 
to  L.  upper  end  table  c.) 


ACT    THREE  109 

PEARL.  (Coming  to  R.  end  table  c.)  He's  got  other 
men  with  him.  He'll  kill  you. 

(Loud  door  slam  off  R.  START  MOB  MURMUR 
off  R.  ALL  pause  and  face  R.  on  door  slam.) 

PEARL.  (High  tension)  Here  he  comes.  Don't  let 
him  in.  (Rushes  to  doors  R.  back  against  them,  arms 
outspread)  Somebody  help  me  hold  this  door. 

(MRS.  HENCHLEY  holds,  frightened  and  trembling  L.C. 
near  fireplace.  GRUBBY  goes  to  L.C.  by  table.) 

DANIEL.  (To  below  L.  end  bench  c.)  Pearl — stand 
aside. 

(MR.  HENCHLEY  seizes  Miss  LEVINSON'S  stool  R.  up- 
per  end  table  to  up  R.  above  door  and  raises  stool 
to  strike  down  whoever  enters.  MR..  MULLIGAN 
rushes  across  rear  to  R.  and  above  MRS.  HENCH 
LEY.  Miss  LEVINSON  shrinks  back  L.C.  to  R.  of 
MRS.  MULLIGAN.  ALL  hold  eyeing  doors  R.) 

(GOODKIND  in  spite  of  PEARL'S  resistance  slowly  pushes 
open  upper  half  of  door  R.  and  enters.  Crosses  to 

L.C.) 

GILCHRIST.    It's  only  Mr.  Goodkind. 
GOODKIND.    Yes,  and  your  neighbors  are  calling. 

(PEARL  rushes  to  GILCHRIST  at  front  c.  below  bench 
facing  R.;  GILCHRIST  to  front  c.  one  arm  protect- 
ingly  about  PEARL,  facing  R.) 

(VERY  SPECIAL  NOTE:  All  that  follows  the 
entrance  of  GOODKIND  happens  so  quickly,  and  the 
speeches  are  spoken  so  much  together,  that  this 
business  is  the  actual  cue  for  the  entrance  of  HEN- 


110  THE    FOOL 

NIG.  As  GOODKIND  says  "neighbors  are  calling" 
he  walks  into  the  room.  This  is  simultaneously 
with  PEARL  rushing  to  GILCHRIST.  JOE  can  see 
through  the  door  when  GOODKIND  moves  and  this 
is  his  cue  to  enter,  so  that  he  and  his  rowdies  get 
on  stage  just  as  PEARL  is  clasped  by  GILCHRIST. 
Everything  said  between  "your  neighbors  are  call 
ing"  and  HENNIG'S  "Come  on,  fellows"  is  during 
the  action.) 

MR.  HENCHLEY.  (As  GOODKIND  enters)  What's 
the  matter? 

MRS.  HENCHLEY.  (Frightened,  down  a  step,  ad 
dressing  GILCHRIST)  Is  there  any  danger? 

MARY  MARGARET.  I'll  get  the  cops.  (Starts  R.  along 
rear  of  table  c.  pauses  as  ALL  hold  as :  SUPERS  murmur 
rises  to  angry  shouts  and  growls  until  they  burst  in 
both  doors  R.) 

(HEN NIG  leads  crowd  of  SUPERS  on  R.  driving  straight 
to  his  position  two  feet  R.  and  a  foot  down  from  R. 
end  bench  c.  SUPERS  all  speak  together.) 

No.  1 — Climb  his  collar-button.  Ride  him.  Go  to  it, 
Joe.  You  know  we're  with  you. 

No.  2— The  fake ! 

No.  3 — The  damn  skunk ! 

No.  A — Get  this  guy  for  keeps 

No.  5 — Yes,  and  we'll  get  this  guy  now. 

No.  6 — Come  on,  rush  him ! 

JIMMY  CURRAN.    Beat  him  up!     Come  on,  fellers! 

No.  7 — (Enters,  no  lines.) 

No.  8 — (Young  Woman  made  up  as  a  Tough  Girl  of 
the  Streets,  goes  to  rear  table,  no  lines.) 

No.  9 — (Follows  No.  8  on,  no  lines.) 

HENNIG.  (As  he  enters)  Come  on,  fellows !  We'll 
show  this  guy.  We'll  show — (At  position,  sees  PEARL 
in  GILCHRIST'S  arms  c.)  By  God!  Caught  in  the  act. 


ACT   THREE  111 

(Turns  to  crowd  behind  him,  indicating  PEARL)    That's 
my  wife. 

(MR.  HENCHLEY  slinks  rear  to  R.  of  Miss  LEVINSON 
as  MOB  starts  to  enter.) 

DANIEL.  Caught  in  what  act,  Joe?  Tell  him  what 
we're  here  for — you,  Grubby. 

GRUBBY.  No,  I  don't  wanter  get  in  no  trouble. 
(Backs  away  and  turns  L.C.  to  beside  MRS.  HENCHLEY.) 

MARY  MARGARET.  I'll  tell  you.  (Speaking  as  GRUBBY 
finishes  the  word  "No".) 

(UMANSKI,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  enters  R.  on  the  run, 
breaks  through  crowd  to  between  GILCHRIST  and 
HEN  NIG.) 

GILCHRIST.    No,  Mary  Margaret. 
UMANSKI.    I  tell  you.    (Grips  HENNIG  by  shoulder, 
forcing  him  to  his  knees.) 

(SUPERS  ad  lib  angry  murmurs  as  UMANSKI  bursts 
through  them.) 

HENNIG.    (Fearfully,  in  surprise)    Umanski ! 

UMANSKI.  I  tell  you,  Hennig.  Mr.  Gilchrist  has 
been  friend  to  everybody.  And  now,  when  HE  needs 
friends,  nobody  knows  nothing.  Well,  I  know.  I  know 
anybody  hurt  him  gotta  lick  me. 

(SUPERS  back  away  upstage  still  murmuring  ad  lib,  and 
fearful  of  UMANSKI  but  ready  to  attack.) 

DANIEL.  (Taking  a  step  R.  toward  crowd,  crossing 
PEARL)  No — please — Umanski. 

HENNIG.  Lickin'  people  ain't  gonna  hide  facts. 
(MoB  roars  approval.) 


112  THE    FOOL 

(DANIEL  touches  UMANSKI'S  left  arm  gently  and 
UMANSKI  sets  HENNIG  on  his  feet;  folds  his  arms, 
facing  crowd.  HENNIG  gathers  himself  together, 
to  incite  gang.) 

He  was  a  preacher,  and  he  got  kicked  out  of  his  church. 

(SUPERS:  derisive  ad  lib  for  an  instant.  All  speak  to 
gether.) 

No.  1  —  They  got  onto  him,  eh? 
No.  2  —  The  dirty  bum  ! 
No.  3  —  That's  a  good  one  ! 
No.  4—  Yah  - 
No.  5—  Hah— 


No.  7  —  Caught  with  the  goods. 

HENNIG.  He  was  a  spy  for  the  people  that  live  on 
Labor,  and  he  came  to  the  mines  where  we  was  on 
strike,  and  ran  away  with  my  wife. 

(SUPERS  ad  lib  shouts  and  cries.    All  speak  together.) 

No.  I—The  dirty  bum! 

No.  2  —  Slough  him! 

No.  3  —  That's  what  I  told  you. 

No.  A  —  Yeh,  I  know. 

No.  5—  See? 

No.  6  —  Maybe  he  didn't  get  much; 

JIMMY.    Why,  the  skunk  —  that's  a  fine  - 

PEARL.  (Crossing  above  DANIEL  to  cv  confronting 
HENNIG.  The  MOB  stops  as  she  reaches  position,  fac 
ing  them)  It  wasn't  him! 

HENNIG.    She  says  that  because  she's  stuck  on  him. 

PEARL.    I  ain't. 

HENNIG.    You're  workin'  for  him,  ain't  you? 

PEARL.    NO. 

GILCHRIST.    Your  wife's  working  in  a  store  uptown. 

No,  1  —  That's  a  good  one! 


ACT    THREE  113 

No.  2 — (Derisive  laugh.) 

No.  3— Y-a-ah! 

No.  4 — (Laughs.) 

No.  5 — To  hell  yer  say! 

No.  6 — Whatcher  givin'  us 

JIMMY.    What's  she  doin'  here? 

No.  7 — Everybody  knows  what  she's  doin'. 

HENNIG.  (He  must  not  wait  for  cues.  He  always 
speaks  as  MOB  stops)  My  wife's  walkin'  the  streets. 

GILCHRIST.   That's  a  lie ! 

No.  7— Oh,  is  it  ? 

HENNIG.  I  heard  it  from  a  pal  she  picked  up  las' 
night — an'  I  seen  her  comin'  here. 

JIMMY.  (Coming  down  and  addressing  No.  2)  She's 
workin'  Sixth  Avenue. 

(SUPERS  general  BIG  derisive  laugh.     All  speak  to 
gether.  ) 

No.  5 — Jimmy  knows. 

No.  1 — Sure  she  is ! 

No.  2 — That's  a  good  one! 

No.  3 — I  told  yer  so. 

No.  A — (Laughs.) 

No.  6 — I  knew  that  right  along. 

No.  7 — You  betcha! 

(Dead  stop  for  MOB  so  next  two  lines  can  be  heard.) 

GILCHRIST.   Pearl! — It  IS  a  lie? 

PEARL.   Oh,  no — it's  true. 

ALL.   (Speak  together)   Hah—  (Turn  up  R.C.  a  step.) 

No.  1— Sure! 

No.  2— Didn't  I  tell  yer,  I  knew  it  all  the  time? 

No.  3— That's  right. 

No.  4 — Right  is  right. 

No.  5 — Nothin'  to  it. 

No.  6 — Sure. 


114  THE    FOOL 

No.  7 — There  you  are ! 

PEARL.  (To  MOB)  Well!  Well!  Well!  (Until 
she  quiets  them)  Why  wouldn't  it  be ?  (Turns  to  DAN) 
I  tried  to  live  straight — like  you  told  me — an'  I  had  a 
job — but  when  the  other  girls  got  wise 

No.  8 — (Girl  of  the  Streets.  Above  table  R.)  They 
kicked  yer  out,  didn't  they? 

PEARL.  (Turning  to  her)  They  ain't  no  better  than 
I  am. 

No.  8— The  hell  they  ain't! 

(SUPERS  general  derisive  laughter.) 

PEARL.  Anyway — I  lied!  I  am  walkin'  the  streets. 
I  ain't  no  good.  I  ain't  fit  ter  live.  (Sinks  on  bench 
front  c.) 

(SUPERS  general  turnaway  up  and  R.  in  disgust.) 

DANIEL.  (To  L.  of  PEARL,  hand  to  her  shoulder) 
Pearl 

PEARL.  Fer  Christ's  sake  ain't  yer  done  with  me 
now? 

DANIEL.    For  Christ's  sake — no. 

(A  pause — PEARL  looks  up  at  DANIEL,   then  slowly 
rises  and  buries  head  on  his  shoulder.) 

HENNIG.    It's  all  a  fake.   Ain't  you  fellers  on? 
SUPERS.    Sure ! 

HENNIG.     He's   got   every   rotten   woman   in   the 
neighborhood  workin'  fer  him. 
No.  1 — Sure  he  has. 
No.  2 — I  know  he  has. 
No.  3— That's  right! 
No.  A — Sure. 

No.  5 — Why  that's  his  game? 
No.  6— Yeh 


ACT   THREE  115 

JIMMY.    Betcha  life  he  has. 
HENNIG.    Your  wives  ain't  safe! 
SUPERS.    No. 

(During  this  enter  TONY  MALDUCCA.   JOE  sees  TONY.) 

HENNIG.    Your  kids  ain't  safe. 

SUPERS.    No. 

HENNIG.      (Facing  doors  R.)     Ask  Tony  Malduc- 

ca 

No.  2— Here's  Tony  now! 

(SUPERS  all  face  R.  hustling  TONY  on  stage  and  down 
R.  of  JOE.  All  speak  together  as  they  come  on  with 
TONY.) 

No.  10 — (Just  off  R.)    Come  on  Tony,  we'll  get  this 

guy- 
No.  11 — (Just  off  R.)  Yes  an'  we'll  get  him  good. 

No.  12 — (Just  off  R.)      Oh,  hell,  come  on,  Tony, 

No.  13 — (Enters  R.  but  has  no  line.) 

No.  14 — Break  him  up!    Wreck  the  joint! 

No.  15 — Come  on,  come  on! 

No.  16— What's  it  all  about? 

No.  17 — Let's  get  this  guy. 

No.  18 — (Street  Girl.  Rushes  on  R.  to  above  table 
C.L.  of  No.  8.) 

No.  19 — (Another  Street  Girl.  Rushes  on  R.  above 
table  c.  between  8 — 9.) 

No.  20 — (Rushes  on  R.  to  R.  of  8.) 

TONY.  (As  \e  enters  and  goes  to  position  R.  of  HEN 
NIG)  What  you  want?  Why  you  send  for  me? 

HENNIG.  We  want  ter  know  what  happened  ter  your 
kid.  Did  he  keep  her  here  against  her  will?  Did  he? 

TONY.    That's  what  he  done. 

(SUPERS,  general  outburst  in  unison.     All  speak  to 
gether.) 


116  THE   FOOL 

No.  1— Ah  ha! 

No.  2— Yah! 

No.  3— Yer  see? 

No.  A — Slough  him! 

No.  5 — Sure — everybody  knows  that. 

No.  6— Yeh! 

No.  7 — You  remember  Teresa  Malducca. 

No.  8— Hah 

No.  9—  (Nods  to  S.) 

No.  10 — Come  on  Tony,  bust  him  one. 

No.  11 — Yeh — get  him  good. 

No.  12 — Oh  hell,  come  on — slug  him! 

No.  13— That's  it 

No.  14 — Get  this  guy! 

No.  15 — That's  what  he  done!  She  was  here  all 
right. 

No.  16 — She  was  here  a  week. 

No.  17 — Sure  she  was. 

UMANSKI.     You  damned  wop!     (Toward  TONY.) 

(ToNY  turns  behind  SUPER  for  protection.) 

DANIEL.  (Crosses  PEARL:  who  takes  stage  L.) 
Umanski.  (A  step  R.  and  gesture,  restraining  UMAN 
SKI.) 

HENNIG.  Drive  him  out !  (Inciting  MOB,  facing 
them. ) 

(SUPERS  all  menacingly  advance  toward  GILCHRIST  a 
step.  They  speak  simultaneously  the  following 
short  e.\iamations.) 

No.  1 — Soak  him! 
No.  2— Beat  him  up ! 
No.  3 — Beat  him  up ! 
No.  A — Beat  him  up! 
No.  5 — Beat  him  up! 
No.  6 — Beat  him  up! 


ACT    THREE  117 

No.  7 — He's  a  damned  fake. 

No.  10 — Jump  on  him ! 

TONY.    There  ain't  no  woman  safe. 

No.  11— Kill  him! 

No.  12— Yeh 

HEN  NIG.  Don't  let  this  guy  buffalo  you.  (Indicates 
UMANSKI,  then  to  GILCHRIST)  I  said  I'd  get  you,  Gil- 
christ,  and  I  have!  (He  runs  upstage  to  the  SUPER 
farthest  up,  and  in  this  moment's  silence  we  hear  one 
line  from  MARY  MARGARET.) 

MARY  MARGARET.  (She  has  climbed  on  the  platform, 
and,  at  the  last  outburst  of  the  MOB,  drops  on  her  knees, 
facing  R.  with  her  hands  raised  to  heaven)  Oh,  dear 
God,  please  listen ! 

HENNIG.   COME  ON! 

(He  rushes  from  upstage  at  UMANSKI:  who  throws 
him  back  with  right  hand.  A  SUPER  downstage 
rushes  at  UMANSKI  :  who  throws  him  with  left 
hand,  so  violently  that  he  falls  on  the  floor.  There 
is  a  general  scrimmage,  with  UMANSKI  throwing 
the  men  off  as  fast  as  they  come  to  him.  From 
this  moment  on  to  end  of  act  MARY  MARGARET 
never  ceases  repeating  the  Lord's  Prayer,  so  that 
she  can  be  heard  in  momentary  silences  of  the  MOB. 
When  the  fracas  is  at  its  height,  GOODKIND  comes 
down  just  L.  of  UMANSKI.) 

(NOTE:  MARY  MARGARET,  on  the  platform,  is  facing 
obliquely  front  and  right.  She  is  high-lighted  by 
the  strip  in  the  footlights.  No  one  on  the  stage 
observes  her,  or  pays  any  attention  to  her.) 

PEARL.  (Throwing  bag  and  collarette  to  platform 
L.)  Get  the  police! 

MRS.  HENCHLEY.  (In  terror;  low  voice)  Police — 
Police! 


118  THE    FOOL 

(MRS.  MULLIGAN  yowds  down  L.  by  platform  L.  ALL 
at  Left  Centre  back  L.  a  little  and  huddle  together 
like  sheep,  terror-stricken,  yet  fascinated,  eyeing 
crowd  R.C.) 

Miss  LEVINSON.  (Crying  out  window  up  L.C.) 
Police— Police 

JIMMY.  (To  UMANSKI,  as  latter  throws  off  HEN- 
NIG)  Get  out  of  the  way  you 

No.  1 — Bust  him  one ! 

No.  2 — Bust  him  in  the  jaw  someone. 

No.  3 — Come  on ! 

No.  4— Yeh! 

No.  5 — You  damned  Polack 

(SUPERS  exclaiming  ad  lib,  crowd  forward  to  attack, 
then  hesitate,  undecided  by  fear  of  UMANSKI'S 
strength.  They  quiet  gradually  as  GOODKIND 
speaks.  UMANSKI  remains  quietly  but  dangerously 
eyeing  MOB,  ready  to  meet  another  attack  and  beat 
it  back.) 

GOODKIND.  (Coming  to  R.  end  bench  c.)  Listen  to 
me!  You're  dealing  with  a  lunatic.  I've  got  a  doctor 
coming.  Leave  him  to  me — and  I'll  have  this  place 
closed  tonight. 

JIMMY.    Yes,  and  he'll  open  another  one! 

No.  1 — Sure  he  will. 

ALL  SUPERS.   Sure  he  will ! 

No.  2— Sure! 

No.  3 — Jump  on  him. 

No.  5 — Let's  get  him  now. 

GOODKIND.  Leave  him  alone.  You  can't  beat  a  crazy 
man. 

PEARL.  (At  L.)  Mr.  Gilchrist  ain't  crazy.  He's  a 
Saint.  I  tell  you  he's  like  God. 


ACT    THREE  119 

No.  15 — Where's  his  wings? 
(SUPERS  all  laugh  raucously.) 

No.  1 — Yeh,  where  are  they? 

HENNIG.    Like  God.    (Laughs.) 

JIMMY.   That's  blasphemy. 

HENNIG.  That's  what  it  is,  an'  that's  what  he's  bin 
tellin'  'em.  (~o  GILCHRIST  accusingly,  hand  up) 
Didn't  you  tell  'em  you  was  a  son  of  God? 

(MARY  MARGARET  has  been  praying  aloud  from  start. 
Now,  as  GILCHRIST  pauses  before  replying,  the 
words  of  her  prayer,  come  out  strongly.) 

DANIEL.    (After  pause)   lam! 

(GOODKIND  shakes  head  hopelessly,  turns  up  past  R. 
end  of  the  table  to  up  c.  by  blackboard.  SUPERS 
join  in  jeering,  raucous  laughter  at  GILCHRIST, 
turning  to  each  other  in  vindictive  humor  at  the 
"joke".  All  speak  together.) 

No.  1 — The  Son  of  God — a-a-ah 

No.  2— Aw,  can  that  stuff. 

No.  3 — Yah.     (Points  and  laughs.) 

No.  A — That's  a  good  one. 

No.  5— Bull! 

No.  6 — Aw,  ye're  crazy. 

No.  7 — Aw,  take  that  outside. 

TONY.    Look  at  the  Son  of  God! 

No.  11— Yah,  yah! 

JIMMY.    The  Son  of  God! 

TONY.    Aw 

No.  12 — Yeh  you  are! 
No.  13 — (Laughs.) 
No.  14 — (Laughs.) 
No.  15 — He's  crazy. 


120  THE    FOOL 

No.  16. — Crazy  as  a  bat. 

No.  17— Son  of  God!   Ha!   Ha! 

DANIEL.  (Topping  tumult,  spreading  arms,  front  c. 
to  MOB)  And  so  are  we  all.  In  you  and  me  and  all  of 
us — deep  down — is  something  of  HIM.  (A  LOUD 
JEER}  We  may  try  to  hide  it— (JEER)  or  kill  it— 
(JEER)  but,  in  spite  of  ourselves  we  are  divine. 

(SUPERS  jeer  throughout  above  on  DANIEL'S  pauses 
but  NOT  downing  his  lines.) 

No.  1 — Aw,  cut  it  out ! 

TONY.  (Crossing  to  GILCHRIST,  speaking  in  his 
face)  If  you  are  a  Son  of  God — save  yourself  !  If  you 
are — what  you  say — give  us  a  sign. 

(On  this  dead  cue,  a  SUPER  pulls  the  cord  reaching  from 
the  chandelier  to  the  table  lamp.  With  this,  all  the 
lights  go  out,  and  the  stage  is  in  blackness  except 
for  the  glow  from  the  fire  and  the  two  bracket 
lamps  LV  which,  supposedly,  give  the  light  coming 
from  the  strip  in  the  footlights.  They  are  all 
screaming  their  lines  at  once.  We  see  their  hands 
lifted  and  falling,  as  though  they  were  striking 
GILCHRIST.  Just  as  the  lights  go  out,  one  SUPER 
climbs  on  the  chair  behind  UMANSKI,  wraps  his 
arms  around  UMANSKI'S  neck,  and  clings  to  him. 
Other  SUPERS  seize  UMANSKI  and  hustle  him  up 
stage  out  of  the  way,  clearing  a  path  for  the  other 
SUPERS  to  close  around  GILCHRIST.  One  SUPER 
upsets  the  table,  and  another  clears  the  bench.  The 
excuse  for  this  latter  movement  is  that  he  is  going 
to  strike  GILCHRIST  with  it,  but  one  of  the  women 
behind  him  seizes  the  end  of  the  bench,  rendering 
it  useless,  and  he  sets  it  down.  As  the  MOB  circles 
about  GILCHRIST,  HEN  NIG  leads  him  to  spot 
marked  on  the  ground  cloth  where  he  is  to  fall. 
Caution:  No  one  to  stand  in  way  of  light  from 


ACT    THREE  121 

fireplace.  EVERYONE  onstage  is  fighting,  including 
PEARL,  MRS.  HENCHLEY  and  the  women.  The 
girls  turn  away  in  disgust  close  to  back  wall. 
SUPERS  speak  together  during  this  attack.) 

No.  1 — Pitch  this  junk  out  of  the  window.  (Does 
so  and  tears  open  drawers  of  chest  up  R.) 

JIMMY.  The  damn  fake!  Kill  him!  (Rushes  for 
GILCHRIST.) 

No.  2 — Oh  hell,  come  on — let's  beat  him  up.  (Runs 
to  GILCHRIST,  strikes  him.) 

(PEARL  grips  No.  2  and  throws  him  to  L.c.) 

No.  3 — Wreck  the  place !  (Tries  to  get  to  GILCHRIST 
to  punch  him.) 

No.  4 — (Rushes  to  GILCHRIST,  swings  at  him. 
UMANSKI  pushes  him  aside.) 

No.  5 — Let's  get  this  guy.  (Steps  on  chair  R.  end 
table  c.  and  throws  arms  about  UMANSKI'S  neck  and 
pretends  to  get  him  to  door.) 

No.  10 — That's  right — we'll  get  him.  (Rushes  at 
UMANSKI,  pins  his  arms  to  his  side,  wrestles  him  to 
door  R.) 

UMANSKI.  (Struggles  with  No.  5 — No.  10 — wrestles 
to  door,  throws  No.  5  out  the  door,  and  No.  10  to  the 
floor.) 

No.  6 — (Helps  JIMMY  throw  table  up  c.  then  rushes 
at  GILCHRIST  until  UMANSKI  stops  him)  You  can't 
get  away  with  that  stuff  around  here. 

No.  7 — (Pulls  light  cord,  turns  table  up  c.  throws 
bench  up  c.) 

No.  11 — (Pulls  chair  rear  of  table  to  R.)  Bounce 
him  on  the  dome — (Slams  chair  on  floor  making  noise.) 

No.  12 — Give  him  the  boot !    (Rushes  at  GILCHRIST.) 

PEARL.    (Seizes  No.  12  and  throws  him  L.C.) 

No.  13 — (Makes  a  noise  with  chairs  up  R.C.) 


122  THE    FOOL 

No.  14 — Plug  him!    Plug!    (Rushes  at  GILCHRIST, 

is  thrown  back  by  UMANSKI.) 

No.  15 — Beat  him  up — beat  him  up — (Enthusiasti 
cally,  starts  for  GILCHRIST)  Kick  him — give  him  the 
boot.  (Starts  to  do  it.) 

UMANSKI.    A-a-ah. 

No.  16 — (Opens  drawers  and  dumps  out  contents, 
throws  down  chairs  that  are  up  R.  General  wrecking.) 

No.  17 — Slug  him!  beat  him  up!  punch  his  eye — 
slug  him! 

(At  the  height  of  the  fracas,  after  GILCHRIST  has  fallen, 
UMANSKI  breaks  loose  and  plows  his  way  through 
the  crowd,  coming  around  right,  and  then  clearing 
a  path  to  GILCHRIST,  shoving  SUPERS  in  all  direc 
tions,  so  that  when  he  stops  he  is  almost  at  GIL- 
CHRIST'S  feet.  GILCHRIST  has  fallen  with  his  feet 
pointing  to  the  door  R.  When  he  is  disclosed, 
PEARL  has  knelt  at  his  head,  which  is  L.  and  put 
his  head  on  her  lap.  When  UMANSKI  clears  the 
way  and  we  see  this  picture  it  is  practically  the 
picture  of  the  Magdalene  at  the  Cross.  As  UMAN 
SKI  sees  this  he  gives  a  deep,  guttural  cry  of  rage 
\and  sorrow.) 

• 
UMANSKI.    A — h — h ! 

(Everyone  silent  on  this  exclamation,  looking  at  the 
picture.  On  hearing  UMANSKI'S  cry,  MARY 
MARGARET,  realizing  that  something  is  wrong  with 
her  hero,  forgetting  herself  in  her  excitement, 
stumbles  to  her  feet  and  rises  without  her  crutches, 
helping  herself  up  by  clinging  to  the  chair  on  the 
platform.  She  steps  down  from  the  platform. 
Miss  LEVINSON,  hearing  the  step,  turns  and  sees 
her.) 


ACT    THREE  123 

Miss  LEVINSON.  (In  a  loud  cry  of  amazement  and 
horror)  Mary  Margaret — where  are  your  crutches? 

(ALL  look  at  MARY  MARGARET  awed,  silent.  No  one 
moves.) 

MARY  MARGARET.  (Pause;  looks  at  her  feet  after 
looking  under  armpits  for  crutches;  bewildered)  I 
don't  know.  (Essays  a  few  tottering  steps,  pauses  in 
ec -stacy)  I  kin  walk — I  kin  walk !  (She  staggers  for 
ward,  looking  for  GILCHRIST,  to  tell  him  that  she  can 
walk)  Mr.  Gilchrist!  Mr.  Gilchrist!  (DANIEL  has 
been  concealed  from  her  by  -members  of  the  MOB  stand 
ing  between  them.  As  they  see  her  walking  toward 
them,  they  step  back  in  awe,  and  suddenly  she  sees  GIL- 
CHRIST  lying  on  the  floor)  Oh,  Mr.  Gilchrist!  (She 
says  this  with  a  breaking  heart  and  a  sob  in  her  voice. 
She  sinks  down  at  his  head  and  folds  him  in  her  arms. 
There  is  a  pause.) 

(NOTE:  During  attack  on  GILCHRIST  and  UMANSKI 
all  those  at  L.C.  play  to  scene  ad  lib  and  work  down 
stage  to  positions  for  UMANSKI'S  "A-a-ah"  as  per 
directions.) 

UMANSKI.  You  wanted  a  sign — (Voice  deep,  hushed 
awe)  Down  on  your  knees  you  murderers!  GOD  IS 
IN  THIS  ROOM.  (Ring  Curtain.  Other  lines  as  it 
falls  slowly)  Down  on  your  knees!  Down  on  your 
knees,  down  on  your  knees!  (Curtain  reaches  stage.) 


CURTAIN 


124  THE    FOOL 

(MoB  fall  slowly  to  their  knees,  one  by  one  and  two  by 
two.  All  have  seen  a  miracle.  HOLD  for  picture. 
Take  up  curtain  the  moment  it  grounds  and  in 
stantly  down  again.  MOB  exit  rapidly  after  pic- 
ture.) 

1.  Call  ALL  principals,  except  PEARL,  CLARE,  MARY 
MARGARET  and  UMANSKI. 

2.  Call  DANIEL,  CLARE,  GOODKIND,  UMANSKI. 

3.  Call  DANIEL  and  PEARL. 

4.  Call  DANIEL  and  CLARE. 

5.  Call  MARY  MARGARET. 

6.  Call  DANIEL  and  MARY  MARGARET. 

7.  Call  ALL  PRINCIPALS. 


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ACT  FOUR 


SCENE:    GILCHRIST'S  Room.    "Upstairs." 

The  room  is  cheerful.  That  is  its  chief  aspect. 
Cheerful,  and  comfortable,  and  home-like.  Such 
a  room — in  the  rear  of  the  fourth  story — might  be 
had  anywhere  for  seven  dollars  a  week,  and  its 
contents  duplicated  for  a  couple  of  hundred,  yet 
no  one  should  be  able  to  look  in  without  envying 
the  occupant.  Before  the  warm  glow  of  a  fireplace 
down  R.  is  a  big,  brown  leather-covered  armchair. 
An  electric  lamp  stands  on  table,  stage  left  of  the 
chair  and  obliquely  opposite  the  fireplace.  There 
are  books  on  the  table,  too,  and  writing  things,  and 
another  chair,  on  its  Left.  Above  the  grate  a  picture 
of  Christ  in  the  Temple.  Conspicuous  in  the  flat, 
and  visible  from  all  parts  of  the  house,  a  big 
studio  window.  There  are  brown  curtains,  drawn 
now,  but  when  they  are  pulled  aside,  one  sees 
chimney-pots,  and  roof-tops,  and  a  blue  night-sky, 
with  one  particularly  bright  star.  Up  L.  a  door  to 
a  hall  bedroom,  (This  door  not  used)  and  down 
L.  a  door.  The  walls,  covered  with  old-gold  grass- 
cloth,  are  hidden,  to  a  height  of  six  feet,  by 
roughly-built  book-cases,  filled  with  much  used 
books.  A  sofa,  four  feet  from  the  wall  L.  now 
holds  numerous  packages.  Twenty  packages  on 
lower  end  sofa.  Furs  with  packages  mentioned 
on  top  of  them.  There  is  a  brown  cloth  on  the 
floor,  and  there  may  be  a  window  seat,  with  brown 
cushions,  beneath  the  window.  The  furniture  is 

126 


ACT    FOUR  127 

all  old — probably  second-hand — but,  as  aforesaid, 
the  room  suggests  comfort  and  peace. 

TIME:    Two  Months  later. 

AT  RISE  :  It  is  just  after  eight  o'clock.  Christmas  Eve 
1920.  DANIEL  is  discovered,  dreaming,  in  the  arm 
chair  R.,  a  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  his  face  to  the  fire. 
He  has  not  lighted  the  desk  lamp,  and  except  for 
the  glow  of  the  embers,  the  room  is  in  darkness. — 
Hanging  over  the  left  arm  of  the  chair,  DANIEL'S 
hand  holds  a  magazine,  but  he  has  not  begun  read 
ing.  After  a  pause  long  enough  for  the  audience 
to  take  in  his  surroundings,  MARY  MARGARET 
enters  down  L.  She  walks  without  crutches — quite 
briskly — but  plainly  is  on  some  secret  business. 
DANIEL  is  lost  in  the  darkness.  A  package  in  her 
hand,  MARY  MARGARET  crosses  quickly  to  the  table, 
and  turns  on  one  and  then  the  other  of  the  two 
lights  in  the  lamp.  Instantly,  of  course,  she  sees 
the  figure  in  the  chair,  and  conceals  the  package 
beneath  her  apron. 

LIGHTING.  At  rise  a  slight  glow  in  the  foots — just 
enough  to  show  outline  of  room — and  glow  from 
fire  on  DANIEL. 

When  MARY  MARGARET  enters,  she  leaves  open 
the  door  behind  her,  and,  in  the  light  from  strips 
back  of  the  door,  we  see  that  she  is  walking. 

When  she  lights  the  desk  lamp,  foots  and  borders 
on  enough  to  give  room  comfortable  warm  appear 
ance,  and  still  be  light  enough  for  comedy  scene. 
Dim  slightly  for  JERRY'S  entrance  during  DANIEL'S 
two  long  speeches,  beginning  "What  is  success?" 

Foots  up  y^  on  rise.  No  borders.  Then  full  up. 
Dim  for  JERRY  during  DAN'S  long  speech. 

MARY  MARGARET.      (L.   of  desk)      Mr.   Gilchrist? 


128  THE    FOOL 

(He  shows  himself)  Goo'ness,  how  you  scared  me !  I 
thought  you  went  out! 

DANIEL.  No !  I  just  slipped  up  here  to  read  a  while 
before  we  put  our  gifts  on  the  tree.  Where's  Grubby? 

MARY  MARGARET.    (Contemptuously)    Grubby! 

DANIEL.     He  promised  to  help  with  the  packages. 

MARY  MARGARET.  Grubby's  all  swelled  up  with  his 
new  taxi-cab.  Christmas  Eve's  the  big  night  in  his  busi 
ness,  but  he  says  don't  worry,  he'll  be  here  in  time  for 
the  sandwiches.  (Hides  picture  under  apron,  crosses  to 
door  to  slip  out)  I'm  interruptin'  your  reading? 

DANIEL.  (Stopping  her)  Oh,  no,  you're  not !  What 
have  you  there  ? 

MARY  MARGARET.  (L.C.  Looking  innocent,  and  ob 
livious  of  fact  that  her  apron  sticks  out  two  feet  in  front 
of  her)  Where? 

DANIEL.  Under  your  apron. 

MARY  MARGARET.  Oh!  (She  reveals  the  parcel) 
I  was  gonna  surprise  you.  It's  your  Christmas  present. 

DANIEL.   From  you?    (Rises.) 

MARY  MARGARET.  (Crosses  to  him  and  hands  him 
picture  at  down  stage  corner  of  desk)  Yes.  It  ain't 
much — you  know — an'  I  didn't  want  it  on  the  tree — 
before  everybody — I  wanted  to  give  it  to  you  yourself. 
(He  simply  holds  the  package  and  looks  at  her.  A 
pause.  Then  she  squeals}  Open  it  now.  (He  does  so. 
The  package  contains  a  framed  picture.) 

DANIEL.  (Downstage  in  front  of  desk)  Mary 
Margaret !  (He  imitates  her  tone  of  ecstatic  excitement 
for  its  comedy  value.) 

MARY  MARGARET.  The  name's  on  the  back!  (He 
turns  it  around,  revealing  to  the  audience  a  cheap  and 
highly-colored  chromo)  So — "Mama's  Treasure!" 

DANIEL.    It's  just  what  I  wanted. 

MARY  MARGARET.     (Delighted)     Is  it — honest? 

DANIEL.    Hm — hm 

MARY  MARGARET.  (Looks  around  the  room  for  a 
place  to  put  it  and  decides  to  substitute  it  for  "Christ 


ACT    FOUR  129 

m  the  Temple")  Let's  put  it  in  place  of  that  one  over 
the  mantelpiece!  That's  an  awful  pretty  pitcher,  but 
mine's  got  colors  in  it ! 

DANIEL.  Why  not  in  place  of  the  Venus  who  fell 
on  her  nose  ? 

MARY  MARGARET.  Oh,  yes!  (Crosses  L.  Looks  at 
space  on  bookcase  up  L.  Goes  up  to  chair  below  book- 
case,  steps  up  on  it,  places  picture  in  the  centre,  steps 
off,  backing  downstage,  satisfies  herself  that  location  is 
good  then  turns  to  GILCHRIST.  DANIEL  moves  L.c. 
MARY  backs  to  R.C.)  It  looks  good,  don't  it? 

DANIEL.  Beautiful.  I  can't  thank  you  enough. 
(Takes  her  hand)  I  can't  really. 

MARY  MARGARET.  You  can't  thank  me!  You  that's 
give  me — (She  looks  down  at  her  legs,  and  up  again 
with  eyes  full  of  tears)  Oh,  Mr.  Gilchrist ! 

DANIEL.  Now !  Now !  Now !  We  mustn't  cry  on 
Christmas ! 

MARY  MARGARET.  (Bursting  into  a  flood  of  tears, 
and  speaking  J.er  line  as  she  weeps)  What're  you  go 
ing  to  do  if  you're  happy  ? 

DANIEL.  Try  laughing.  (He  shakes  finger  at  her, 
and  her  sobs  turn  into  laughter)  Anyway,  if  I'm  hav 
ing  my  Christmas  now,  you  must  have  yours.  Suppose 
you  rummage  on  the  sofa.  (He  points  to  lower  end  of 
couch.) 

MARY  MARGARET.  (Crosses  him  to  L.)  Oh!  (She 
runs  to  obey,  sits  on  sofa  and  holds  up  a  parcel  inquir 
ingly.  He  stands  with  back  to  chair  L.  of  desk.) 

DANIEL.    That's  a  book  for  Miss  Levinson. 

MARY  MARGARET.  (Reads  from  another  bundle) 
Mrs.  Mulligan.  (Takes  a  third)  This  one  ain't  marked. 

DANIEL.  Gloves  for  Mack.  I  wanted  to  show  I  ap 
preciated  his  bringing  back  that  coat. 

MARY  MARGARET.  (Reading  from  two  packages) 
Peter— Paul 

DANIEL.    For  your  brothers. 


130  THE    FOOL 

MARY  MARGARET.  (With  a  fourth)  And — Mary 
Margaret. 

DANIEL.    Open  it  now. 

4(MARY  MARGARET,  breathless,  hesitates  and  then,  re- 
movina  the  wrapping,  lifts  up  a  bit  of  tissue 
paper.) 

MARY  MARGARET.  (Hysterical  with  delight)  Tishie 
paper !  (She  continues  rummaging  in  the  box,  until  she 
sees  her  gift,  which  the  audience  does  not  see  yet.  Then 
she  turns,  facing  GILCHRIST,  but  still  sitting  on  the 
sofa)  Oh,  Mr.  Gilchrist!  Oh,  Mr.  Gilchrist;  you 
oughtn't!  (He  comes  L.)  They're  beautiful!  (She 
pulls  out  of  the  box  a  child's  set  of  furs  of  imitation 
ermine — very  cheap  and  little.  The  sight  of  them  should 
be  amusing.  She  lifts  the  muff  by  the  cord  attached  to 
it  with  her  right  hand,  and  then  brings  out  the  neck 
piece  with  her  left  hand.  She  rises.  During  the  next 
speech  she  is  putting  the  neck-piece  around  her  throat, 
and  stuffing  her  hands  into  the  muff)  They're  the  most 
beauti Idlest  furs  I  ever  seen!  I've  wanted  a  set  like 
this  always.  You've  made  me  so  happy!  (And  she 
begins  totcry  again)  I  never  was  so  happy  before  in  my 
life! 

DANIEL.    Now! 

MARY  .MARGARET.  (She  remembers,  and  laughs) 
I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you.  (Stroking  furs.) 

DANIEL.    Don't  try. 

MARY  MARGARET.  I  never  expected  no  such  a  Christ 
mas  !  (Starts  for  door)  I  gotta  show  mother ! 

DANIEL.  (Turning  R.)  Take  down  a  few  of  the 
packages !  (He  crosses  to  front  of  desk  and  knocks 
ashes  from  pipe.) 

MARY  MARGARET.  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute.  (She 
opens  the  door,  disclosing  GOODKIND.  Seriously 
alarmed)  Oh! — Mr.  Gilchrist! 

DANIEL.     (Turning  L.)     Well — Mr.  Goodkind! 


ACT    FOUR  131 

GOODKIND.   May  I  come  in  ? 

DANIEL.  Of  course.  (GOODKIND  enters.  DANIEL  in 
dicates  chair  L.  of  table  R.  MARY  MARGARET  crosses  to 
turn  chair  front.)  Sit  down! 

GOODKIND.  (c.)  I've  only  a  moment.  Jerry's  wait 
ing  for  me  in  the  car. 

DANIEL.   How  is  Jerry?    (Crosses  R.) 

GOODKIND.  (Shakes  his  head  despairingly,  looks  at 
MARY  MARGARET  as  she  crosses  back  to  L.)  I  wish  you 
could  perform  a  miracle  on  him. 

DANIEL.   I  wish  I  could. 

GOODKIND.  (To  MARY  MARGARET)  You  seem  to 
walk  all  right. 

MARY  MARGARET.  (L.  of  GOODKIND.  Looks  at  her 
legs)  Oh,  yes ! 

GOODKIND.  (To  DANIEL)  Had  a  doctor  look  her 
over? 

DANIEL.   Three  of  'em. 

GOODKIND.    Any  opinion? 

DANIEL.   Three  opinions. 

(GOODKIND  turns  away,  not  getting  full  significance, 
and  then  turns  back  sharply  to  point  laugh.) 

MARY  MARGARET.  They  said  he  didn't  do  it,  and  you 
seen  him ! 

DANIEL.  (Holding  up  a  warning  finger)  Ssh! 
(Then  to  GOODKIND)  They  all  say  she  suffered  from 
hysterical  paraplegia.  (GOODKIND  puzzled)  Hysterical 
paralysis.  One  says  she  was  cured  by  shock — you  know ; 
the  riot.  Another  says  it  was  suggestion — believing— 
which  is  another  way  of  saying  faith,  isn't  it?  The 
important  thing  is  that  she's  cured! 

MARY  MARGARET.  God  did  it — God  and  Mr.  Gil- 
christ ! 

DANIEL.  (Hushing  her  again)  Take  down  an  arm 
ful  of  those  packages — like  a  good  girl! 

MARY  MARGARET.    I  will.     (She  takes  off  six  from 


132  THE    FOOL 

upper  end  of  sofa  and,  returning  L.C.,  glowers  blackly 
at  GOODKIND.  Then  to  GILCHRIST)  You  call — if  you 
want  me !  (She  is  at  the  door  and  one  step  takes  her  off. 
Exit.) 

GOODKIND.  (Hesitates.  Doesn't  know  how  to  begin. 
Takes  cigars  from  his  pocket)  Smoke? 

DANIEL.  Thanks.  (Fills  his  pipe)  I'll  stick  to  my 
old  friend. 

GOODKIND.    How  are  things  with  you? 

DANIEL.    Fine ! 

GOODKIND.  Happy? 

DANIEL.    (Radiantly)   Yes! — And  you? 

GOODKIND.  No.  Everything's — all  wrong.  (Sits  L. 
of  desk)  My  boy's  very  ill.  Clare's  wonderful  to  him. 
I  can't  explain  it — she's  like  a  different  woman.  And 
she  seems  happy.  But  Jerry's  had  to  give  up  work,  and 
there's  more  trouble  in  Black  River,  and  that's  what 
brought  me! 

DANIEL.  You  don't  want  my  advice?  (Sits  on  down 
stage  arm  of  chair  R.  of  desk.) 

GOODKIND.  I  want  you — as  general  manager. — These 
strikes  are  such  utter  damned  waste !  We  had  a  work 
ing  compromise  on  your  agreement,  and  everything 
was  all  right,  but  we  began  figuring  we  could  make 
more  money — and  the  men  walked  out,  and  flooded  the 
mines.  I'd  like  you  to  take  charge,  Daniel. 

DANIEL.    I  can't. 

GOODKIND.   Name  your  own  salary. 

DANIEL.    My  work  is  here. 

GOODKIND.    You  can  have  anything  you  want. 

DANIEL.    I  don't  want  anything. 

GOODKIND.  You  want  to  see  the  men  get  their  rights. 

DANIEL.    They'll  get  'em.    Nothing  can  stop  that. 

GOODKIND.  You're  not  going  to  turn  down — (Looks 
at  him  to  see  how  much  he  had  better  offer)  fifty  thou 
sand  a  year  ? 

DANIEL.    What  can  I  buy  with  it  that  I  haven't  got  ? 


ACT    FOUR  133 

GOODKIND.  (Leaning  forward)  What  can  you  buy 
with  fifty 

DANIEL.   What  have  you  bought  ? 

GOODKIND.  (Taken  aback — physically  as  well  as 
mentally.  Has  some  trouble  thinking  what  he  has 
bought)  Why,  I — I've  got  one  of  the  finest  houses  in 
New  York! 

DANIEL.    Is  it  any  more  comfortable  than  this? 

GOODKIND.    (Indicating  room)    This  one  little  room! 

DANIEL.  How  many  rooms  do  you  live  in  at  the 
same  time? 

GOODKIND.    I've  got  a  half  a  dozen  cars ! 

DANIEL.     I've  two  legs,  and  I  walk,  and  keep  well. 

GOODKIND.    I've  twenty  servants 

DANIEL.    Don't  tell  me  you  enjoy  that! 

GOODKIND.    And  the  respect  of  people  about  me 

DANIEL.    So  have  I ! 

GOODKIND.  And,  what's  most  important  of  all,  I'm 
a  success ! 

DANIEL.  Are  you  ? 

GOODKIND.    Huh  ? 

DANIEL.  Are  you?  What  is  success ?  Money?  Yes; 
that  is  what  our  civilization  tells  us.  Money!  But 
where  has  that  brought  us?  Only  to  the  elevation  of 
the  unfit — the  merely  shrewd  and  predatory.  All  around 
us  we  see  men  of  wealth  who  have  nothing  else — neither 
health  nor  happiness  nor  love  nor  respect.  Men  who 
can  get  no  joy  out  of  books,  or  pictures,  or  music,  or 
even  themselves.  Tired,  worried  men  who  are  afraid 
to  quit  because  they  have  no  resource  except  to  make 
money — money  with  which  to  buy  vulgar  excitement 
for  their  own  debased  souls.  Why,  Mr.  Goodkind,  I 
have  an  income  that  you  wouldn't  suggest  to  your  book 
keeper.  But  I  have  peace,  and  health,  and  friends,  and 
time  to  read,  and  think,  and  dream,  and  help.  Which 
of  us  is  the  rich  man? 

GOODKIND.  But  if  everybody  lived  your  way,  what 
would  become  of  the  world's  work? 


134  THE    FOOL 

DANIEL.  Living  that  way  is  my  contribution  to  the 
world's  work.  Another  man's  might  be  selling  shoes, 
or  writing  plays,  or  digging  ditches.  Doing  his  job 
doesn't  prevent  any  man  from  doing  his  bit.  "From 
every  man  according  to  his  ability  to  every  man  accord 
ing  to  his  needs."  And  every  man  who  gives  his  best 
must  find  his  happiness.  ' 

GOODKIND.  I'm  afraid  there  wouldn't  be  much  pro 
gress — living  your  way. 

(Dim  Lights.) 

DANIEL.  That's  the  second  time  you've  spoken  of  my 
way.  It  isn't  my  way.  It's  the  sum  total  of.  all  that  has 
been  learned  and  taught.  You,  and  Jerry,  and  the  others 
have  called  me  eccentric,  and  a  fool,  because  I'm  trying 
to  walk  a  path  trod  hard  by  countless  feet.  Was  Christ 
eccentric?  Was  Confucius  a  fool?  And  how  about 
Buddha  and  Mohammed?  What  of  St.  Bernard,  and 
St.  Teresa,  and  St.  Francis  of  Assisi — of  Plato,  and 
Zeno,  and  Lincoln,  and  Emerson,  and  Florence  Night 
ingale,  and  Father  Damien,  and  Octavia  Hill,  and  all 
the  saints  and  scientists,  and  poets  and  philosophers, 
who  have  lived  and  died  in  complete  forgetfulness  of 
self?  Were  they  fools,  or  were  they  wise  men  and 
women  who  had  found  the  way  to  peace  and  happiness  ? 
Were  they  failures,  or  were  they  the  great  successes 
of  all  Time  and  all  Eternity? 

GOODKIND.   God  knows ! 

(We  hear  the  thump  of  JERRY'S  cane  off  L.  Then  the 
door  knob  rattles.  GOODKIND,  realizing  what  it  is, 
rises,  and  his  expression  becomes  apprehensive. 
JERRY  enters,  a  dying  man.  He  is  in  the  last  stages 
of  locomotor  ataxia,  and  has  the  peculiar  walk 
that  is  symptomatic  of  that  disease.  He  is  a  ghastly 
sight,  but,  though  his  speech  is  thick  and  he  man 
ages  his  legs  with  difficulty,  he  is  still  cynical  and 


ACT    FOUR  135 

defiant.  He  leaves  the  door  open  behind  him.   GIL- 
CHRIST  rises  immediately  upon  his  entrance.) 

JERRY.  (He  takes  two  or  three  steps  to  L.C.  before 
speaking)  Well,  you've  been  the  devil  of  a  time!  I 
came  up  to  see  what  was  keeping  you ! 

GOODKIND.    (Rising)    Mr.  Gilchrist.    (Up  c.) 

JERRY.    Hello,  Gilchrist! 

DANIEL.  (R.C.  in  front  of  desk)  How  are  you, 
Jerry? 

JERRY.  Not  so  damned  well !  But  I'll  be  all  right  in 
the  Spring!  Clare's  looking  after  me.  Clare's  a  good 
sport.  What  I  need  now's  a  run  down  to  Palm  Beach ! 
(Looks  around)  So  you're  reduced  to  this  are  you? 

DANIEL.    Yes. 

JERRY.    Going  to  take  my  job? 

DANIEL.    No. 

JERRY.    Why  not? 

DANIEL.    Your  father  understands. 

JERRY.  Yes — so  do  I ;  didn't  I  always  say  you  were 
a  nut  ?  That's  it ;  a  nut.  (He  laughs  with  a  laugh  that 
begins  to  get  the  better  of  him.) 

GOODKIND.  (Crosses  back  of  JERRY,  and,  touching 
his  shoulder,  starts  for  door)  Come,  Jerry !  (At  the 
touch,  JERRY'S  laugh  becomes  shrill  and  hysterical. 
GOODKIND  returns  and  grips  his  shoulder  forcefully 
enough  to  bring  JERRY  back  to  self-control)  Jerry! 
Jerry! 

(JERRY  stops  laughing.  GOODKIND  goes  to  door  L.  and 
MARY  MARGARET  enters.  She  glances  at  him  and 
crosses  him  to  JERRY,  not  until  then  becoming 
aware  of  the  ghastly  figure  before  her.  JERRY 
looks  at  her  with  such  a  leer  that  she  slinks  upstage. 
JERRY  then  turns  to  GILCHRIST.) 


136  THE    FOOL 

JERRY.    Who's  the  girl  ? 

DANIEL.  Your  father's  waiting. 

JERRY.  A'right! — (He 'turns  slowly  and  painfully, 
and' takes  two  halting  steps  to  L.  then  turns  again,  and 
throws  at  GILCHRIST)  Some  failure  you've  made  out 
of  life !  (He  steps  into  doorway  and  as  he  staggers  off 
shrieks)  Fool!  B'God— fool!  (Exit.) 

(DANIEL  crosses  to  offer  hand  in  sympathy  to  GOOD- 
KIND.) 

GOODKIND.  (Pause:  holding  hands:  then  speaks  as 
he  gives  the  hand  a  final  shake)  I  wonder  if  you  are  the 
failure,  after  all.  Goodnight!  (Exit.) 

DANIEL.    (Softly)    Goodnight ! 

(DANIEL  starts  R.  for  his  pipe  on  the  desk.  MARY 
MARGARET  is  up  L.  playing  happily  with  her  furs. 
As  DANIEL  reaches  c.  some  chimes  in  the  distance 
begin  the  anthem  "Hark,  the  Herald  Angels  Sing." 
DANIEL  looks  front,  exalted,  fairly  lifted  out  of 
himself,  and  then  briskly  walks  up  to  the  window 
c.  and  stands  L.  of  it.  He  draws  back  the  curtain 
and  stands  with  his  downstage  hand  on  his  hip  and 
arm  akimbo.  MARY  MARGARET,  hor  attention  at 
tracted  by  his  silence,  crosses  to  R.  of  him,  and  looks 
at  him.  Then  she  looks  out  to  see  what  he  is  look 
ing  at.  Then,  chagrined  that  he  pays  no  attention  to 
her,  she  looks  back  to  him  and  slips  her  head 
through  the  arm  he  is  holding  akimbo.  He  prompt- 
ly  lets  his  arm  rest  on  her  shoulder  and  draws  her 
to  him.  They — and  we — see  the  chimney  pots,  and 
the  blue  night  sky,  and  one  bright  star.) 


ACT    FOUR  137 

MARY  MARGARET.    Mr.  Gilchrist!    Is  that  the  Star 
of  Bethlehem? 

DANIEL.    I  wonder    .    .    . 

(The  chimes  swell  out,  and 


THE  CURTAIN  FALLS 
THE  END 


ELECTRICAL  PLOT 


ACT  ONE 

Open  foots  c.  section  in  pink  and  amber  full  up. 

Border  (first  only)  left  section,  centre  section  and  right 
section  full  up  amber  and  pink. 

Amber  baby  spot  left  focussed  on  side  of  tree  and  sec 
ond  step  of  step-ladder  R.C. 

Centre  spot  (border)  focussed  to  cover  two  chairs  down 
L.C.  front. 

1000  watt  amber  spot  R.  (border)  focussed  to  light 
door  L. 

One — light  amber  strip  off  R.  and  L.  doors. 

Two — 1000  watt  lamps  in  blue  off  R.  and  L.  directed 
between  set  flats  and  eye  to  light  up  c.  stage. 

Two — 1000  watts  back  of  drop  to  light  windows — that 
to  R.  in  blue,  that  to  L.  in  amber. 

One — 1000  watt  lens  lamp  amber  off  stage  down  L.  to 
light  Window  over  door  (stained  glass  all  win 
dows.) 

One  baby  lens  off  L.C.  to  light  CROSS  at  end  Act. 

CUES 

At  "CLARE'S"  second  enter  down  R.  dim  1000  watt 
bunches  and  1000  watt  lens  outside  windows — slowly 
down  to  half  up. 

At  cue  from  CLARE  "Where's  your  overcoat?"  start 
dim  of  foots  and  border  down  to  half-up — then  go  back 
to  bunches  and  dim  down  to  a  fourth  up  THEN  con- 

138 


THE    FOOL  139 

tinue  dimming  foots  and  border  until  OUT  at  CUE 
from  CLARE  "Engagement  is  off." 

At  Cue  "I  AM  A  JEW"  bring  up  star  on  Tree  on 
dimmer  and  then  the  100  Watt  spot  on  door  down  L. 
AFTER  Poor  Man  has  made  exit. 

ACT  Two 

At  opening  Straw  1000  watt  bunch  on  off  French 
doors  L.  lighting  a  little  of  stage  L.C. 

Amber  strip  three  lamp  on  off  down  R.  to  light  hall. 

CUES 

Servant  turns  light  switch  on  stage  above  door  R. 

Foots  and  Border,  chandelier  c.  (ornate  8  light) 
brackets  rear  wall  to  either  side  tapestry  ALL  full  up 
and  remain  throughout  act. 

Servant  exits  down  L.,  a  moment's  pause  and  pull 
out  1000  watt  off  down  L. 

ACT  THREE 

At  opening  foots  and  border  full  up,  also  lights  in 
old  charndelier,  lamp  lens  in  fireplace  L.  Blue  bunch 
to  R.  and  L.  off  stage  to  light  back  drop  street — amber 
strip  off  over  doorway  R.  to  light  hall,  white  bunch  off 
up  stage  behind  transparency  drop  to  light  windows  in 
it — two  brackets  amber  over  fireplace  L.,  also  full  up — 
also  table  lamp. 

CUE 

In  mob  scene  when  table  overturned  and  Man  pulls 
connector  from  tablelamp  to  chandelier,  all  onstage 
lights  OUT  except  brackets  and  a  three-light  amber 
addition  strip  in  footlight  trough  down  L.  to  light  up 
MARY  MARGARET. 


140  THE    FOOL 

CUE 

After  first  curtain  call  all  stage  lights  full  up. 
ACT  FOUR 

At  rise  just  a  faint  glow  from  foots  and  borders — 
spot  off  R.  in  fireplace,  small  amber  strip  off  L.  to  light 
hall.  Off  up  c.  windows  1000  watt  to  either  side  to 
light  back  drop — behind  drop  a  white  bunch  to  light 
up  star  holes  in  drop. 

CUE 

MARY  MARGARET  turns  up  table  lamp  desk  L. — stage 
foots  and  border  to  about  three-fourths  up — Brackets 
on  wall  are  not  practical  (two  at  mantel  R.  one  L.  on 
wall). 

FURNITURE,  HANGINGS  AND  PROPERTY 

PLOT 
ACT  ONE 

Down  R.  below  door  a  Shoebox  or  small  packing  case 
2  feet,  9  inches  long  and  18  inches  deep  and  15 
inches  wide  or  thereabouts  placed  against  wall  and 
empty.  Leaning  against  this  another  larger  oblong 
wooden  box  filled  with  wrapped  parcels  of  vary 
ing  sizes  many  of  which  have  "Christmas  Labels" 
etc.  Upon  the  upstage  corner  of  wooden  box 
on  floor  rests  velvet  covered  case  containing 
"STAR".  (See  the  Electrical  Plot.) 

Up  R.  in  corner  eight  or  ten  rather  large  Christmas 
parcels  and  six  long  streamers  made  of  Holly  and 


THE    FOOL  141 

Fir  hang  from  top  of  setting,  with  a  wreath  or  two 
of  holly,  red  ribbon  ties. 

fc.c.  about  ten  feet  from  door  R.  large  Christmas  tree 
say  12  feet  in  height  ornately  decorated  with  a 
profusion  of  tinsel,  toys,  and  decorations,  also 
Christmas  parcels — and  its  base  on  the  floor  is 
piled  up  all  about  by  at  least  150  wrapped  parcels, 
i.e.  gifts.  To  the  L.  and  against  this  tree,  facing 
footlights  a  practical  step-ladder  9  feet  tall,  strong 
enough  for  girl  to  run  up  and  down.  At  the  base 
of  this  ladder  on  the  floor  a  pair  of  8  inch  pliers 
(pincers)  and  a  folding  wood  camp  chair  faced 
toward  the  ladder  and  half  front. 

Up  c.  at  extreme  rear  the  High  Altar  with  Altar  Cloths, 
Candles,  Crucifix  or  Plain  Cross  as  per  Episcopal 
Ritual— down-stage  from  this,  platform  is  covered 
with  dark  red  carpet. 

Across  Centre  along  Step  and  Altar  Rail  are  packages 
as  presents  and  at  L.  of  opening  c.  in  rail  on  plat 
form  are  three  dolls,  clothed — a  package  of  tags 
and  red  narrow  ribbon  on  spool,  also  scissors 
(shears).  Red  carpet  covers  not  only  platform  at 
c.  but  the  step  to  the  platform  up  c. — Platform  is 
15  inches  high,  five  feet  wide  and  16  feet  long. 
Altar  in  proportion. 

Up  L.C.  close  to  Altar  Rail  a  folding  wood  camp  chair 
faced  front.  Three  feet  to  L.  of  this  chair  an 
other  similar  chair  faced  toward  first  chair — di 
rectly  down  from  first  chair  a  similar  chair  faced 
L.  and  about  four  feet  up  from  front  edge  ground 
cloth  and  three  feet  to  left  of  this  is  another  sim 
ilar  chair  faced  to  R.  and  same  distance  up  from 
edge  of  ground  cloth. 

Upper  L.  corner  another  camp  chair  faced  half  front 
and  centre.  Six  long  streamers  in  this  corner 
matching  those  in  R.  upper  corner. 

Beyond  Rail  up  c.  to  R.  and  L.,  a  profusion  of  shrubs  in 


142  THE    FOOL 

boxes,  also  some  flowers — masking  ends  of  plat 
form  to  R.  and  L. 
BLUE  ground  cloth  down — plain. 

OFFSTAGE  AND  HANDPROPS 

Off  down  R. — 6  small  parcels  for  "CLAIRE"  to  bring  on, 
wrapped  and  tied  with  dainty  red  ribbon  and  with 
Christmas  labels. 

Off  down  L. — 8  parcels  medium  size  for  "BARNABY  to 
bring  on.  1  practical  silver  vanity  case  wrapped 
in  tissue  and  in  box  with  label  for  "MRS.  TICE" 
to  bring  on. 

Handbag  for  "MRS.  TICE"  with  money  to  give 
"BARNABY". 

Ten  shilling  note. 

ACT  Two 

Rich  Taupe  carpet  down — grey  green. 

R.  above  door  a  walnut  side  chair  back  against  wall. 

K.C.  on  stage  about  6  feet  from  door,  chair  upholstered, 
walnut,  faced  half  front,  half  centre — to  L.  close 
to  this  chair  an  ash  receiver  and  match-stand  prac 
tical. 

Up  R.  in  corner  bookshelves  inset  to  wall  proper  with 
books  (not  practical),  ornamental  vase  atop  book 
shelves — an  ash  receiver  on  ledge  of  bookshelves. 

Rear  up  stage  an  ornate  tapestry  hanging  on  wall — 
large  and  of  dull  shade  not  to  detract  from  gen 
eral  tone  of  setting. 

Up  R.C.  against  wall  rear  a  cellarette  built  like  an  up 
right  oblong  pedestal,  key  and  lock  to  door  of 
same  and  within  it  bottles  of  various  liquors,  etc., 
and  a  circular  imitation  silver  tray  with  decanter 
and  3  whiskey  highball  glasses  and  siphon  all  prac 
tical — An  ornate  vase  atop  this,  20  inches  tall. 
To  L,  of  this  cellarette  a  small  stand  on  which  is 


THE   FOOL  143 

practical    cigar    humidor    in    silver    with    cigars. 

Up  L.C.  against  wall  a  duplicate  of  above  save  no  bottles 
or  door. 

Centre,  a  large  library  table  in  walnut  with  dressing, 
ash  stand  to  R.  and  L.  with  matches — before  this 
close  to  it  down-stage  a  bench,  backless,  in  walnut. 
Above  this  table  a  large  ornate  armchair  similar 
to  that  R.C.,  at  R.  upper  end  table  a  walnut  side 
chair  facing  it — at  L.  end  table  a  similar  chair  fac 
ing  table.  Bell  for  GOOD  KIND  to  ring  for  servant. 

Up  L.  in  corner,  duplicate  bookshelves,  etc.,  as  per  that 
up  R.  Below  this  against  L.  wall  a  side  chair  sim 
ilar  to  that  R.  above  door. 

L.C.  a  large  armchair  similar  to  other  two  facing  front 
and  c.  with  an  ash-stand  on  upstage  side  close  to 
it,  with  matches. 

Wall  below  French  doors  L.,  an  ornate  small  wall-mir 
ror,  practical. 

L.  are  large  practical  French  doors.  NO  glass  but  with 
silk  drapes  tacked  on  to  mask  offstage. 

OFFSTAGE  AND  HANDPROPS 

Off  down  R. — Sable  collarette  in  box  wrapped  in  tissue, 
card  within  for  SERVANT  to  bring  on — doorbell  for 
cues — also  small  tray  with  card  for  SERVANT  to 
bring  on. 

Off  down  R. — French  prints  in  frames  on  backing, 
chaise  longue  and  cushion  and  small  table  and  side 
chair  to  dress.  Cigarettes  for  JERRY. 

This  entire  set  and  furniture  to  indicate  the 
home  of  a  very  rich  man  of  good  taste — an  utter 
contrast  to  all  other  settings. 

ACT  THREE 
Down  R.  a  wall  hat  and  coat  rack  on  wall  below  doors  R. 


144  THE    FOOL 

On  this  a  crook-handle  umbrella  costing  $1.  (4 
shillings.) 

Up  R.  against  wall  above  doors  eight  or  ten  folding 
camp  chairs  folded,  setting  on  floor. 

Up  R.c.  against  wall  rear  to  R.  of  window,  an  old  bureau 
(chest  of  drawers) — a  few  books  on  it. 

Dark-blue  or  green  roller  shades  to  windows  at  rear — 
practical,  to  run  up  and  down  at  cues. 

A  wood  seat  folding  camp  chair  by  L.  hand  corner  bu 
reau,  up  R. 

A  tall  narrow  blackboard,  eraser,  chalk  stands  on  floor 
between  windows  up  c.  rear — about  7  feet  tall  and 
2  feet,  8  inches  wide — in  old  imitation  mahogany 
case.  On  this  inscription  in  chalk. 

At  L.  of  this  a  small  14  inch  square  top  stand  on  which 
sugar  bowl  with  lump  sugar,  knives,  forks  and 
spoons  for  business. 

At  L.  of  window  L.  up  c.  rear,  another  stand  on  which 
is  a  small  portable  Victrola  or  similar  machine 
NOT  used. 

Above  bureau  up  R.C.  against  wall,  a  four  by  three  foot 
engraving  or  map. 

Up  L.  against  wall  running  from  window  to  L.  side 
wall,  built  bookshelves  with  fake  books,  Atlas, 
etc.  Atop  it  are  jar  smoking  tobacco,  pipes, 
matches — over  this  a  four  by  three  foot  engraving. 

Up  L.C.  before  fireplace  an  old  easy  chair. 

R.C.  in  wall  fireplace  mantel  with  clock  and  dressing. 
Grate  practical,  floor  fender,  etc. 

A  Windsor  armchair  below  this  at  L.C. 

Down  L.  filling  jut  in  scene  an  eight  inch  high  platform 
with  small  table  against  wall  (by  fireplace)  on 
which  is  a  globe.  A  side  Windsor  chair  below  this 
table. 

Placed  c.  an  ordinary  kitchen  deal  table  2  feet,  8  inches 
by  four  feet,  with  red  and  white  check  cloth,  on 
which  are  three  high-class  magazines — such  as 
The  English  Review;  match-stand  and  matches  L. 


THE    FOOL  145 

end  table.  On  R.  end  a  drop  single  light,  electric 
bulb  from  gas  chandelier  hanging  c.  converted  to 
electric.  Green  tin  shade  for  this — practical. 

Chandelier  hanging  coiling  over  table  c.  practical  with 
three  or  four  electric  lights  burning  has  been  con 
verted  to  electricity. 

Two  camp  chairs,  wooden  seats,  above  this  table 
c.  one  to  its  R.  and  an  ordinary  kitchen  chair  at  its 
L.  end — before  the  table  a  small  narrow  wooden 
bench  of  deal. 

Brown  groundcloth  down. 

OFFSTAGE  AND  HANDPROPS 


Down  R. — Book  for  "Miss  LEVINSON"  to  bring  on. 
Supper  service,  cheap,  on  black  tin  tray,   for 
"GRUBBY"   to  bring  on — hot  coffee  served    (get 
Thermos  bottle  for  this). 

Coat  for  GILCHRIST — an  overcoat  easily  slipped 
into,  also  slouch  hat  for  GILCHRIST. 
Off  up  c.  to  L.  a  brick  to  throw  through  window  up  L.C. 
Practical  pane  glass  in  window  up  L.C.  lower  middle 
pane. 

ACT  FOUR 


Down  R.  just  in  scene  a  stand-table  with  a  litter  of  Mag 
azines  (old  ones)  atop  it. 

R.  against  wall,  fireplace,  mantel  with  dressing,  a 
pipe  on  it. 

Over  mantel  a  fairly  large  picture  of  Christ  as 
a  youth  in  frame — not  expensive.  Several  other 
smaller  framed  pictures  on  walls  at  suitable  places, 
but  all  have  been  bought  at  a  second-hand  place. 

Practical  grate,  tongs,  etc.,  and  fender  to  mantel — re 
peat  from  Act  Three. 


146  THE    FOOL 

A  large  bid  leather  arm  easy  chair  before  fireplace, 
faced  half  front  and  R. — in  this  a  magazine. 

A  cheap  desk  with  dressing  and  table  lamp,  practical, 
L.  this  easy  chair,  its  ends  up  and  down  stage  and 
angled  a  little  toward  c.  at  upper  end;  blotting 
pad,  etc. 

To  L.  this  desk  a  hair  covered  side  chair,  old. 

Up  R.  against  wall  above  fireplace  and  extending  along 
wall  rear  to  window  c.,  large  built-in  book  shelves 
with  fake  books — atop  it  several  vases,  bric-a-brac. 

Up  R.  in  corner  an  old  chair. 

c.  large  window  seat  upholstered  cheaply  with  a  cheap 
cushion  to  either  end. 

Brown  draw  heavy  opaque  curtains  on  pole  at  window 
c.  practical  with  weighted  draw  cords  at  L.  end. 

c.  a  small  stand  by  R.  corner  window  seat. 

c.  to  L.  corner  window  seat,  a  side  chair  of  cheap  wood. 

Up  R.c.  against  wall  rear  and  extending  to  wall  L., 
built-in  bookshelves  five  feet  high,  similar  to  that 
to  R.,  with  books  and  bric-a-brac. 

L.C.  down  from  this  and  giving  clearance  below  it  to 
the  door  down  L.,  an  old  haircloth  double  arm  sofa, 
its  R.  end  upstage  two  feet  above  L.  end — angled. 
On  this  a  profusion  of  wrapped  Christmas  parcels. 
On  its  R.  end  and  on  its  L.  end  DEFINITE 
wrapped  parcels  as  called  off  by  MARY  MARGARET 
in  Act  Four — the  only  practical  props  being :  small 
white  imitation  ermine  muff  with  neck-string  and 
similar  tippet — wrapped  in  tissue  paper  in  square 
foot  square  box,  wrapped  in  paper  and  tied. 

L.  against  wall,  a  small  table  with  flower  bowl. 

Off  down  L.  in  distance  chimes  tuned  to  play  definite 
tune.  Striker  for  this. 

Stick  for  JERRY — walking  stick,  crook-handle. 

Brown  carpet  of  Act  Three  down. 


NOTHING    BUT   THE   TRUTH 

Comedy  in  3  acts.  By  James  Montgomery.  5  males, 
6  females.  Modern  costumes.  2  interiors.  Plays  2%  hours. 

Is  it  possible  to  tell  the  absolute  truth — even  for  twenty-four 
hours?  It  is — at  least  Bob  Bennett,  the  hero  of  "Nothing  but 
the  Truth,"  accomplished  the  feat.  The  bet  he  made  with  his 
partners,  his  friends,  and  his  fiancee — these  are  the  incidents  in 
"William  Collier's  tremendous  comedy  hit.  "Nothing  but  the 
Truth"  can  be  whole-heartedly  recommended  as  one  of  the  most 
sprightly,  amusing  and  popular  comedies  of  which  this  country 
can  boast.  (Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  Price,  75  Cents. 

SEVENTEEN 

A  comedy  of  youth,  in  4  acts.  By  Booth  Tarkington. 
8  males,  6  females.  1  exterior,  2  interior  scenes.  Costumes, 
modern.  Plays  2%  hours. 

It  is  the  tragedy  of  William  Sylvanus  Baxter  that  he  has  ceased 
to  be  sixteen  and  is  not  yet  eighteen.  Baby,  child,  boy,  youth 
and  grown-up  are  definite  phenomena.  The  world  knows  them  and 
has  learned  to  put  up  with  them.  Seventeen  is  not  an  age,  it  is  a 
disease.  In  its  turbulent  bosom  the  leavings  of  a  boy  are  at  war 
Tvith  the  beginnings  of  a  man. 

In  his  heart,  William  Sylvanus  Baxter  knows  all  the  tortures 
and  delights  of  love;  he  is  capable  of  any  of  the  heroisms  of  his 
heroic  sex.  But  he  is  still  sent  on  the  most  humiliating  errands 
by  his  mother,  and  depends  upon  his  father  for  the  last  nickel 
of  spending  money. 

Silly  Bill  fell  in  love  with  Lolo,  the  Baby-Talk  Lady,  a  vapid 
if  amiable  little  flirt.  To  woo  her  in  a  manner  worthy  of  himself 
(and  incidentally  of  her)  he  stole  his  father's  evening  clothes. 
When  his  wooings  became  a  nuisance  to  the  neighborhood,  hia 
mother  stole  the  clothes  back,  and  had  them  altered  to  fit  the 
middle-aged  form  of  her  husband,  thereby  keeping  William  at 
home  in  the  evening. 

But  when  it  came  to  the  Baby-Talk  Lady's  good-bye  dance,  not 
to  be  present  was  unendurable.  How  William  Sylvanus  again 
got  the  dress  suit,  and  how  as  he  was  wearing  it  at  the  party  the 
negro  servant,  Genesis,  disclosed  the  fact  that  the  proud  garment 
was  in  reality  his  father's,  are  some  of  the  elements  in  this 
charming  comedy  of  youth. 

"Seventeen"  is  a  story  of  youth,  love  and  summer  time.  It  is 
a  work  of  exquisite  human  sympathy  and  delicious  humor.  Pro 
duced  by  Stuart  Walker  at  the  Booth  Theatre,  New  York,  it  en 
joyed  a  run  of  four  years  in  New  York  and  on  the  road.  Strongly 
recommended  for  High  School  production.  (Royalty,  twenty-five 
dollars.)  Price,  75  Cents. 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  25  West  45th  Street,  New  York  City 
New  and  Explicit  Descriptive  Catalogue  Mailed  Free  on  Request 


NOT  SO  LONG  AGO 

Comedy  in  a  Prologue,  3  acts,  and  Epilogue.  By  Arthur 
Eichman.  5  males,  7  females.  2  interiors,  1  exterior. 
Costumes,  1876.  Plays  a  full  evening. 

Arthur  Richman  has  constructed  his  play  around  the  Cinderella 
legend.  The  playwright  has  shown  great  wisdom  in  his  choice 
of  material,  for  he  has  cleverly  crossed  the  Cinderella  theme 
with  a  strain  of  Romeo  and  Juliet.  Mr.  Richman  places  his 
young  lovers  in  the  picturesque  New  York  of  forty  years  ago. 
This  time  Cinderella  is  a  seamstress  in  the  home  of  a  social 
climber,  who  may  have  been  the  first  of  her  kind,  though  we 
doubt  it.  She  is  interested  sentimentally  in  the  son  of  this  house. 
Her  father,  learning  of  her  infatuation  for  the  young  man  without 
learning  also  that  it  is  imaginary  on  the  young  girl's  part,  starts 
out  to  discover  his  intentions.  He  is  a  poor  inventor.  The 
mother  of  the  youth,  ambitious  chiefly  for  her  children,  shud 
ders  at  the  thought  of  marriage  for  her  son  with  a  sewing-girl. 
But  the  Prince  contrives  to  put  the  slipper  on  the  right  foot,  and 
the  end  is  happiness.  The  play  is  quaint  and  agreeable  and  the 
three  acts  are  rich  in  the  charm  of  love  and  youth.  (Royalty, 
twenty-five  dollars.)  Price,  75  Cents. 


THE  LOTTERY   MAN 

Comedy  in  3  acts,  by  Eida  Johnson  Young.  4  males, 
5  females.  3  easy  interiors.  Costumes,  modern.  Plays 
2*4  hours. 

In  "The  Lottery  Man"  Rida  Johnson  Young  has  seized  upon. 
a  custom  of  some  newspapers  to  increase  their  circulation  by 
clever  schemes.  Mrs.  Young  has  made  the  central  figure  in  her 
iamous  comedy  a  newspaper  reporter,  Jack  Wright.  Wright  owes 
his  employer  money,  and  he  agrees  to  turn  in  one  of  the  most 
sensational  scoops  the  paper  has  ever  known.  His  idea  is  to 
conduct  a  lottery,  with  himself  as  the  prize.  The  lottery  is  an 
nounced.  Thousands  of  old  maids  buy  coupons.  Meantime  Wright 
ialls  in  love  with  a  charming  girl.  Naturally  he  fears  that  he 
may  be  won  by  someone  else  and  starts  to  get  as  many  tickets 
as  his  limited  means  will  permit.  Finally  the  last  day  is  an 
nounced.  The  winning  number  is  1323,  and  is  held  by  Lizzie, 
an  old  maid,  in  the  household  of  the  newspaper  owner.  Lizzie 
refuses  to  give  up.  It  is  discovered,  however,  that  she  has  stolen, 
the  ticket.  With  this  clue,  the  reporter  threatens  her  with  arrest,, 
Of  course  the  coupon  is  surrendered  and  Wright  gets  the  girl  of 
his  choice.  Produced  at  the  Bijou  Theater,  New  York,  with 
great  success.  (Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  Price,  75  Cents. 

SAMUEL  FBENCH,  25  West  45th  Street,  New  York  City 
New  and  Explicit  Descriptive  Catalogue  Mailed  Free  on  Ee<iue«* 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


KICK  IN 

Play  in  4  acts.  By  Willard  Mack.  7  males,  5  femaks. 
2  interiors.  Modern  costumes.  Plays  2%  hours. 

"Kick  In"  is  the  latest  of  the  ver;/  lew  available  mystery 
plays.  Like  "WitHn  th»;  Lavr,1'  "8»V4;r,  Keys  to  Baldpate," 
"The  Thirt  fnth  Mi>vr,"  ari(j  'I,,  ,h<»  Next  Itoom,"  H  is  one 
of  those  t)u  l>  are  accurately  described  aa  "not  having 

a  dull  cionu'-'i  >f  from  beginning  to  end."  It  is  a  play  with 
all  the  incr  popularity,  not.  at  all  difficult  to  set  or  to 

act  •  ft,  jt  along,  and  the- (situations  are  "built  with 

that  akin  n  flK»  of  the  theatre  for  which  Willnrd  Mack 

is  known,  mystery  melodrama,  fo:r  high  school*  and 

colleges.  (Ron  Hyv  twenty -five  dolioVs.)  Price,  76  Orts. 

TILLY   OF    BLOOMSBURY 

("  Happy  -Go-Lucky.*')  A  comedy  in  3  acts.  By  Ian 
Hay.  9  males.  7  females.  2  interior  bcenes.  Modem 
dress.  Plays  a  full  evening. 

Into  an  aristocratic  family  comes  Tilly,  lovable  and  youthful, 
with  idp-s  -:nd  manners  which  greatly  apset  the  circle.  Tilly 
is  so  frankl.;  honest  that  she  mak-s  no  secret,  of  h«r  t.re- 
mendouK  affection  for  the  young  son  of  the  family;  this  brings;  her 
into  many  But  her  troubles  have  a  joyous  end  in 

charmingi* -•  >  '  -.det?  ,  -ones  of  senti> -.rnt  and  hamor.  This  comedy 
presents  ».n  op»»ortunry' for  •«,  handuom^  sta?«  settings, 

and    h^aut'ivl    custw  ><g.     (Boy»U.»,    twenty-fly*    dollars) 

75  Cents. 


BILLY 

in  3  act  u    B^  George  Cameron.    10  males, 
5  females.     (A  few  mhu  r  male  parts  can  be  doubled,  mak 
ing  the  cast    7  1   exterior.     Co- 
modern.     Plays  2Vj  hours. 

The  action    of 

bound  for  Havana.      TK  I'*  with  th. 

a   set   of  faJsp,   t««'th.  troong 

paBsen  n-w.    and    furnishes   two   a 

the  h"'  On*'  of  the -funniest  com 

the    last   df  <>n    th^    AmyricaTi    star  My"     (some- 

tinieb  TonibHtoiies"),    in    which    <h*>    late    Sidney 

Drew   achi^vod  »   hit    in   New  York  mid   lat*"   toured  the  country 
Bevera)  times.      Htoyalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)          Price,  75  Cents. 

SABOTBI*  FEENOH,  25  West  45th  Street,  New  York 
Frr  and  Explicit  Descriptive  Catalogue  Mailed  Free  on 


